


Masquerade

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Autism, Depression, Drama, Eating Disorder, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, London, Marriage, Memory Loss, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader is trying to be a scriptwriter, References to Christianity, Substance Abuse, Tension, Wales, age-gap, family-life, set after the sign of three, sex/sexual references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 249,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still bruised by the events of Sherlock's fall and return you enter the ball that night as a twenty-five year old with an aching heart. You can't know that what will happen there will change the course of your life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thank you so much for all the support you have given me on all my stories, I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this new one. Just a couple of things, before we get started-this is set a few months after John and Mary's wedding and the stuff with Magnussen hasn't happened yet. Likewise no one knows about Mary's true identity yet.

**November 2014**

 

Mid-afternoon on a dull day where a burglary has just been solved and there is little other crime of interest sees Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Gregory Lestrade huddled around the outside of Scotland Yard and taking part in their favourite past time whenever they’re bored and there’s little on. 

 

“Honestly Lestrade, I think it’s fairly obvious that F/N would go out with me over you,” the consulting detective says with a know-it-all expression on his face. He’s wearing his dark coat, blue scarf and black gloves. 

 

 _“Why?”_ Greg asks, lowering the hot cardboard cup of coffee down from his lips. He’s standing there in a long black coat of his own over a crumpled white shirt and grey suit. “Because you’re Sherlock Homes the man in the funny hat who can see things other people can’t?” 

 

“Girls, girls,” John says placatingly, carrying his own cup of coffee in one hand and raising his other in supplication as he stands at the head of the triangle they’re forming. He’s wearing his black and white stripy top and jeans.

 

“Oh please John,” Sherlock says in a voice full of disdain, “Don’t pretend that if you weren’t married then you wouldn't be doing exactly the same thing. We all know that you used to have _more_ than a little crush on F/N”-

 

“Talking about F/N again?” Anderson asks, emerging suddenly from the police station to join the little group. He’s wearing a warm looking patterned knitted top over a white shirt along with black trousers. 

 

“Urgh,” Sherlock scowls, turning his head away, before he looks back and asks, “Anderson what are you even doing here? You don’t work here any more.” 

 

John shifts his position. 

 

“He popped back in to say hello,” Greg fills in, in an undertone.

 

Sherlock looks puzzled, before at the maddening look John shoots him he waves his hand and mutters, “I suppose it’s something to do with trying to be sociable? Either that or you’re trying to get your job back.” He looks at Anderson in disapproval. 

 

Greg snorts. 

 

“Anyway,” Anderson says, stepping forwards with a bit of a flush on his face, “She’ll never go out with any of you. I have it on high authority that she’s actually been interested in me for some time”-

 

Sherlock nearly chokes on thin air, before he asks, “On _whose_ authority?” as Anderson glares at him. 

 

“My own,” Anderson finally admits, shifting his position. Sherlock snorts and Greg exchanges an exasperated look with John. “But she’s always smiling at me,” Anderson adds defensively. He folds his arms. 

 

“Yes, I dare say she finds you as amusing as everyone else does Anderson,” Sherlock says with relish. 

 

Anderson’s frown deepens. 

 

“Go back inside,” Greg advises him. Finally, after pulling another face at them all, Anderson does. 

 

“Anyway, as I was about to say, I hated letting F/N down like that,” John says. “But Mary and I, we just got so close”-

 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts John’s pondering, “I'm sure it was a great disappointment to her”-

 

“Listen Sherlock,” John frowns. “I know you’re not one to understand these things, but F/N and I, well something could have quite easily developed between us”-

 

“Oh dear God,” Sherlock exclaims, and John looks rather affronted for a moment until he realizes that Sherlock’s not in fact looking at him. He turns around to see a gleaming black car pulling up in the pick-up point that the three of them are closest to.

 

Mycroft steps out of the car a moment later, wearing a black, pinstripe three-piece suit and a burgundy tie. The chain of a silver pocket watch is also visible. “Ah Sherlock,” he says once he’s by them. “Working hard as usual I see. Mummy _will_ be pleased.” 

 

“What do you want Mycroft?” Sherlock spits out, looking as if he’s liable to fold his arms and go into a full-on sulk at any given moment now that Mycroft’s shown up and spoilt his fun. 

 

Mycroft ignores him and turns his head so that he can look at Greg. “I need a word with you,” he says in a low voice. 

 

“Yes, all right,” Greg begins, but when Mycroft looks satisfied and begins to turn towards the entrance of the police station he says, “Let me just finish my coffee.”

 

Mycroft turns back to him with a face full of disapproval. “I'm a busy man Detective Inspector”-

 

“Yes, and this is the first break I’ve had all day, so I’d be appreciative if you could just wait one moment,” Greg says, sounding a little harassed. 

 

Mycroft studies him. Then, clearly coming to the conclusion that the Detective Inspector will be more obliging once he’s had his coffee, he lets out a disgruntled, “Fine. I’ll wait inside”-

 

“Actually,” Greg says, just as Mycroft’s about to leave them for the second time, “Whilst you’re here you might as well try and help us settle a debate.” 

 

Mycroft turns back and casts them all a questioning look. “As long as it’s not to do with something silly,” he stipulates curtly, his gaze going back to the police officer. 

 

Greg nods. “Sherlock’s of the opinion that F/N would rather go out with him than me,” he goes on. 

 

Mycroft stiffens a little at your name. Flashes of your face fill his mind, whilst your desperate shouts barrage his ear. He swallows, before, coming out of it, he says dismissively, “I don’t see why you both can’t simply ask F/N on a date and be done with it. Instead of wasting so much time on _foolish_ speculation.” 

 

Greg and John exchange a look that’s full of raised eyebrows, whilst Sherlock scrutinizes his brother carefully. “Judging by the fervour in your tone could we interpret that you _too_ have feelings for F/N brother dear?” Greg and John goggle at the idea. 

 

“Don’t be so obtuse Sherlock,” Mycroft says, drawing himself up and trying to push away every nice moment with you that he’s ever had. But they come back to him regardless. Every single time you’ve smiled at him, listened carefully to his words, as if you’d truly respected them, how helpful you’d been on the Bruce-Partington case…he swallows and inwardly tries to shake off such annoyances. “You know that I don’t go in for that kind of thing,” he says, coming out of his thought. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t say another word. 

 

“The point is though Mycroft,” Greg begins, standing up a little straighter. “Is that we can’t just go up to F/N and ask her out.” Mycroft looks at him as if to say, _‘Why ever not?’_ “We’d have to do something special. Give her a proper chance to _really_ …”

 

Mycroft finds himself zoning out of this most irritable conversation. He despises the way that the police officer and his brother talk about you sometimes. The way that they act as if they’re trying to do right by you when really they’re doing nothing more than treating you as if you’re a prize to be won. Bitterness grows inside him. If only Moriarty hadn’t come along when he had then maybe, well maybe things would be different. He’d gotten the sense that you’d appreciated him after all…but Moriarty _had_ come along and he’d been forced to put any hope of ever dating you aside. Forced to resign himself to being alone for eternity and watching with suffering eyes as his brother, Lestrade and every last, foolish man in the vicinity pandered after you. It’s only a slight comfort to him that you’ve never dated any of them, but it can only be a matter of time. You’re only human after all. He lets out a frustrated breath and his eyes come to fix hazily on the spot above Lestrade’s left shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize that there’s a poster there, stuck to the glass of the police station. He blinks a little, jolting back into life as he reads it. “Why don’t you both try and invite her to that then and see who she chooses?” he asks, in an attempt to finally cut off Lestrade’s speech about how he’d worship you forever or some other such nonsense. He curses himself inwardly a moment later. What a thing to suggest! The complete opposite of what he wants! He can only hope that Lestrade will think the idea a stupid one. 

 

As Greg stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, still full of all the words he’d wanted to get out, Mycroft thinks that he might be in luck. But then the Detective Inspector shifts around so that he can look at the poster properly and Sherlock and John do the same. “A masquerade ball?” Greg exclaims. He lifts his free hand to rub thoughtfully at his chin. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.” Mycroft’s heart sinks. He really is a fool sometimes. 

 

“I’d go too,” Sherlock states. “John could be on hand to make sure that it’s all conducted fairly”-Mycroft rolls his eyes. In his opinion Sherlock’s more likely to act unfairly than Lestrade is-“We’ll both dance with her and then we can let F/N decide between us.”

 

Greg nods, his chocolate eyes glinting in the dull autumn light. 

 

Mycroft can’t help but hope that you’ll choose neither of them, but as the fearful prospect that you _will_ actually end up dating one of them enters his mind and he suddenly sees the foul image of your hand draped over Lestrade’s chest as you sit together or even worse his brother kissing you, a sudden determination to stop such things from ever occurring hits him. But how to stop them? He ponders, but it’s not long before he realizes that when it comes down to it there’s only one thing for it. He’ll just have to lose his feelings of cowardice when it comes to you and go to the ball himself. After all he might not be able to confess his feelings to you, but at the very least he can try and find a way back into your life, _and_ keep a close eye on both Lestrade and Sherlock. Better that than to stay away and spend all night cursing and wondering if you’re letting either Lestrade or Sherlock touch you and only be able to discover such a thing from CCTV. He shudders. The plan forming in his head he clears his throat. “Right,” he says, pretending to be above it all once more, whilst he makes a mental note to get Anthea to book him an appointment with his tailor as soon as possible. “Now that, that matter’s finally in hand might I be able to speak to you privately at last Detective Inspector?” 

 

Greg nods, huffs out a breath and drains his coffee. 

 

“I don’t know why you insist on meeting privately,” Sherlock begins, raising an eyebrow at his brother. Mycroft sighs as he turns his gaze on him. “We all know that you’re just going to be talking about me.” 

 

Mycroft lets out another sound of irritation and makes to say something, but before he can Greg waves a hand at him. “Follow me,” he says, keen to stop any more bickering between the Holmes brothers. Mycroft looks at him in a ruffled fashion for a moment, before the two go off with each other.

 

John follows Sherlock as his friend makes to hail a cab. 

 

“I suppose it’s just wishful thinking that you’re going to go back to Baker Street?” 

 

Sherlock looks at him with some satisfaction about his face. “Yes,” he says, “It is. We need to go to a tailor’s right away. My brother uses one that we should be able to persuade to see us without an appointment. Then I need to start working on my mask”-his jaw shifts-“I’ll show Lestrade who’s boss.”

 

*

 

You’re working on your latest script in 221C. As much as you love going out and helping Sherlock whenever you can, you hadn’t taken a year off-which you’re currently four months into-from finding yet another temporary job just to run about on cases. You’d done so primarily because you’d wanted to focus more on your writing and see if you could even make a career out of it. You’d saved up enough money through previous work to be able to sustain yourself and enable you to continue living in London and paying the rent, and since writing is your real passion and every job that you’d had hadn’t been that interesting it had made the most sense. In fact you’re just in the middle of editing the latest hopeful piece that you’re hoping to send off when you get a text from Sally Donovan. Despite Sherlock’s complaints about the matter she’s been one of your closest friends for years-long before the consulting detective had ever met her. 

 

 **Just a warning that I wouldn't be surprised if you suddenly get several invites to the Met’s annual masquerade ball soon.**

 

You groan from where you’re sitting by the circular table with your laptop. A printed version of the script that’s been scribbled on lays out in front of you, whilst a rapidly growing cold cup of tea sits just behind your laptop. 

 

_Please tell me that you’re joking._

 

 **Unfortunately for you no. Anderson said that John was practically refereeing the freak and my boss as they talked about you earlier. Then I heard the boss tell Anderson that if he fancies his chances with you he should attend the masquerade ball. Apparently every man whose ever been interested in you is going to ask you to dance and see who you prefer.**

 

_Oh God. And if the answer is none of them?_

 

 **Well, I did try and tell them that. But as usual I was overlooked,** Sally sends, and you can imagine her throwing her hands up into the air in a defeated fashion. **Seriously though, all joking aside, I think you better make your feelings to them clearer at some point because there’s so much testosterone in the air today that I'm almost drowning in it.**

 

You shift uncomfortably. _They’re all so sweet though. Even Sherlock._

 

 **Don’t send a text like that again. I nearly choked.** You let out a bit of a snort, before you sigh. Then, as if Sally’s heard such a thing she sends, **Come on then. How is the freak sweet?**

 

You shift and look up as you think about it. _Well,_ you begin cautiously, _He plays classical versions of my favourite songs on his violin sometimes, and when I was sick one time he even brought me breakfast in bed. Okay the toast was burnt and he accidentally left a finger on the plate instead of one of the sausages, but he’s trying. I don’t want to upset him, or any one else. Greg’s been a good friend. I don’t want to lose him. I don’t know Anderson as well, but with the exception of what happened before he’s never done anything to upset me._

 

You can almost hear Sally letting out a long sigh. **Listen,** she sends, **I'm not telling you to be a bitch about this or anything, but don’t you think that it might be better, in the long run, to let them down and not make them think that they actually have a chance with you?** You swallow. You know that Sally’s right, but you don’t like the thought of risking any of the friendships you’ve made. **Also, talking of what happened before,** Sally sends, and the beep of the incoming message makes you come out of your thought. **You have Mycroft to think of.**

 

 _Mycroft?_ you send with clumsy fingers. Your heart quickens its pace at the name, and if you’d spoken then you’re sure you would have just stammered. 

 

Again you can almost hear Sally sighing from where you sit. **F/N, don’t play all innocent with me. I know things have been a bit difficult and you’re not really sure what’s going on, but I can tell that you still like him.**

 

Your heart tightens inside your chest. _Listen Sally,_ you send, _Saying that things have been difficult is an understatement. Try the fact that for over two years I’ve pretty much had no contact with him._

 

**Look F/N, that may be the case, and I'm trying to be kind here, but at the end of the day if he’s the one, out of everyone we know, who gets your heart pounding and your mind excited, then don’t you think that maybe you should tell him?**

 

_Did you not get the part where I said we haven’t spoken properly in years? And right now, no, he doesn’t get my anything excited. He just makes me angry and want to throw something at him._

 

You can sense Sally sighing again. It’s a long one this time. **So you haven’t dreamt about him at all? You haven’t had any moments where you’re writing or trying to do something where you’ve just suddenly found yourself staring off into space and thinking about him? I know you still cry about it. You made out that you’d just been watching a sad film, before you came to meet me last week, but I know it wasn't that. Your eyes were all red and puffy and you kept staring into space with sad eyes that had, ‘I still have the most massive crush on Mycroft Holmes and it’s eating me up inside’ written all over them.**

 

You huff out a breath. Before you know what you’re doing you’re furiously tapping away at your phone and sending, _Yes, I still cry about it because it’s so God damn frustrating! One moment everything was fine-or reasonably fine considering where I live-and then that happened and he wouldn't even talk to me!_

 

 **That’s a very passionate text for someone who’s supposedly just angry at him,** Sally sends, and you can see her raised eyebrows in your mind. 

 

You frown. _Fine, you huff out, I still have feelings for him, but I'm never telling him._

 

You can almost sense Sally pouting and putting a hand on her hip as she replies, **Why ever not?**

 

 _I'm just not okay?_ you send, growing more frustrated and running a hand through your hair. _Besides, why are you pushing me to do this? You hate Mycroft._

 

 **It’s true that I'm not fond of either Holmes brother, and yes, I'm not wildly ecstatic about the thought of one of my closest friends confessing their love for one of them, but F/N come on. You need to do this. I know you do.**

 

_So would you tell him after everything? Especially when it’s obvious that even though I thought there might be something there, there isn't? He’s made it quite clear that he’d never feel the same about me in a million, no make that a billion years._

 

 **Look, it’s time for me to be brutally honest here,** Sally sends. 

 

_Okay._

 

 **I think you’re holding on to what happened with the freak far too much. Yes, it was painful, but he’s back now and everything’s fine. Regarding Mycroft, yes, you’re probably right. He doesn’t seem like one to fall in love, not just with you, but with anyone. That being said though, in terms of romance you haven’t exactly got a lot going on. Sure you’ve got Lestrade, Anderson and the freak after you, but if you don’t feel the same way about any of them then they can be ruled out. Even getting a rejection from Mycroft would be a significant step forwards. Who knows, it might even clear your head, get you over him at last and get you ready for whomever you’re really supposed to be going out with.**

 

Reading her text makes you feel angry, annoyed and sad all at once. You have to take several deep breaths, before you can even try and respond. _Okay, firstly, you would tell me to get over what happened with Sherlock considering your role in it all. That’s the only way you’ll sleep at night. Secondly, why would I summon up every bit of courage I have to awkwardly tell Mycroft how I feel if he’s only going to reject me?_

 

 **F/N, come on, be fair. We fell out about that before and I am not arguing with you about it again. You know that I was just trying to do my job. I'm not going to apologize. I didn't know that was going to happen, and even if I did then surely you can see that what I did has practically been erased by the freak coming back? You’ll summon up your courage with Mycroft because I think it’s about time you got over him, and I think that this might be the only way you can. Time obviously hasn’t healed your wounds, so maybe you should do something.**

 

You brood over it all for a moment. Okay, you finally send, letting out a sigh as you type the word. _I’ll try and be more honest with everyone if I get asked to this ball thing. But I'm not going to tell Mycroft how I feel. I’ve made myself look enough of a fool as it is._

 

 **I think you’ll regret not doing anything,** is the last thing Sally sends, before she goes back to work.

 

You don’t reply. Instead you huff out a breath and try to go back to your script, but Sally’s words keep filtering through to you. They build up inside you until finally you find yourself blurting out, “I won’t regret it,” to no one, before you add, “Why would I regret not making a complete idiot of myself? Mycroft’s made it _pretty_ clear…” your hands push at the script and you stare moodily at the table for another moment, before you get up with a sigh and decide to have an early dinner.

 

Even as you eat it standing up, prodding at the Indian microwave meal with a fork, you can’t help but think of all the moments you’d rather avoid. Tears stream down your face as you remember Mycroft smiling at you and taking time to actually talk to you and ask you a few questions whenever he came around to visit Sherlock, before he went on his way again. He’d been so sweet and pleasant. Why did he have to change? 

 

*

 

You get a knock on the door to your flat that night. You don’t really feel like having a visitor, but at least it’s not unexpected. 

 

You’d taken a break, but just been about to carry on with your work; so, whilst your laptop’s booting up again you go across to see who’s there. 

 

“Sherlock,” you say, your stomach feeling a little tight upon seeing the blue eyed, scruffy haired consulting detective standing there. You can tell from the unusually uncertain look he’s sporting that he’s come to ask you something, and you don’t need to be a Holmes to figure out what. “Good day?” you question, stepping back to admit him. 

 

“Mmm,” he mutters, pushing past you and going to sit by the table. He pulls the printed copy of your script towards him, scrutinizing it. 

 

You can’t help but feel amused. “D’you want a drink?” 

 

“Mmm,” Sherlock says, glancing up at you, before his eyes go quickly back to the script. 

 

Taking that as a yes you roll your eyes and go to sort out a cup of tea for you both. 

 

Once you turn back to him and take the tea over to the table he leans back, points to a paragraph that’s three-quarters of the way down the page and announces, “You missed a bit. There should be a line break after the explosion.”

 

You settle the cups down on the table and frown, tugging the script out of his hand and towards your face. You feel sure that you’d already dealt with that mistake. “So there should,” you breathe, once you see that he’s right and you haven’t. “Thank you,” you say, laying the script back down on the table and noting the error with a red pen. 

 

“It’s not a problem,” Sherlock smiles. You nod and sit down beside him. He turns more towards you, glancing at you every now and again, before he takes a long sip of his tea. “Listen F/N, I need to”- your heart quickens in both fear and anticipation. This is it. The question’s coming and you’ll have to react to it, but before Sherlock can go on the sound of voices comes, before there’s a sharp tap upon the door. You swallow. You’d recognize the sound of that authoritative knock anywhere. It’s Greg. Sherlock evidently realizes the same thing for he frowns. 

 

“I’ll just”- you gesture at the door. 

 

Sherlock nods jerkily. You shoot him a bit of a sympathetic smile, before you go across to answer it. 

 

Greg’s standing there in a grey suit, which is a bit rumpled despite the fact that he’s evidently tried to smooth himself down with a white open-necked shirt and no tie. He’s carrying a bouquet of roses, which makes you swallow. “F/N,” he says, holding them out to you. 

 

“Oh,” you say. “What’s the occasion?” Your stomach squirms. You know _full_ well what the occasion is. 

 

“Does a man need an excuse to treat his friend?” Greg asks, bringing you out of your thought and making you jump a little in surprise when he kisses at your cheek. 

 

You blush, feeling embarrassed by the contact, before you let him inside. “They’re lovely, thank you,” you tell him. You instantly feel like kicking yourself however at the bright look, which appears on Greg’s face. 

 

“Sherlock,” Greg nods at the other man, before he sends him a rather calculating look. 

 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock returns, his jaw tight as he shakes his head a tiny fraction to say that no, he hasn’t asked you to the ball yet. As soon as Greg looks pleased though the consulting detective can’t resist saying, “Roses, _really_ Lestrade? How predictable, and from the petrol station no less.” 

 

Greg looks at you fearfully for a moment and you hurriedly turn your gaze so that you can pretend to be immersed in a painting that’s on the wall, despite the fact that you see it every day, what with this being your flat and all. Greg clears his throat a bit, looking relieved that you’re apparently oblivious to the conversation. 

 

Sherlock rises from his place at the table and moves across, so that he comes to be standing by the other man. “I'm rather glad that Lestrade’s come when he has F/N,” he tells you, “You see I believe that we both want to ask you the same thing.”

 

 _“Really?”_ you swallow, feeling a little faint, whilst you still opt for naivety. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his eyes darting to Greg’s, before he looks back at you. 

 

“What Sherlock means F/N,” Greg says, stepping forwards and taking one of your hands, whilst you use the other to hold the flowers to your shoulder, “Is that there’s a”-

 

“There’s a masquerade ball coming up,” Sherlock announces, nudging Greg aside and taking your hand. 

 

“A ball? When?” you ask. 

 

“The Saturday after next,” Sherlock says, caressing at your hand. You know that his mind’s firing off a thousand calculations about the texture of your skin and how soft it is. 

 

“The thing is though F/N,” Greg buts in, knocking Sherlock away and looking at you imploringly with those puppy dog eyes of his as he takes your hand in his again. “It’s a Met ball. Guests from outside the police force are invited, hence”- he says, waving a hand at you. You nod-“But it would look better for you if you went with me, what with me being an official member of the force and everything.”

 

“Sherlock wouldn't be looked on fondly then?” you ask, looking at the consulting detective. 

 

Sherlock draws himself up. “I have every right to be there, no one should make anything of my appearance, and for Lestrade to suggest otherwise is”-

 

“Yes, but I can see how it would look a little odd if someone questioned us and found out that neither of us are”-

 

 _“Exactly,”_ Greg says, looking pleased that you seem to be agreeing with him, “Which is why”-

 

“I rather think”- Sherlock protests. 

 

“I’ll do you a deal then boys,” you say, before either of them can continue. They look at you, both of them with fixed expressions and hopeful hearts. You swallow. “I’ll go with Greg, since that, as we've decided, would be the proper thing to do. As _friends,”_ you add, putting a hand on the officer’s chest placatingly when he throws a triumphant smirk Sherlock’s way. Greg swallows and nods as his eyes return to you. It’s Sherlock’s turn to look triumphant. _“But,”_ you say, your eyes going to the consulting detective, “I promise to have at least one dance with you.” Sherlock’s lips quirk upward and all the hope that he was carrying earlier seems to return to him. 

 

*

 

“You did _what?”_ Sally asks. You’d phoned her as soon as you’d managed to get both Greg and Sherlock to leave. 

 

“I had to,” you say, pacing around your flat frustratingly and running your free hand back through your hair. Your eyes try to avoid looking at the roses, which are now on a vase on the coffee table. “Sherlock was being all uncertain. I might be just his friend, but I'm a sucker for him when he does that. Greg bought flowers and”-

 

“F/N, you really _are_ hopeless,” she tells you. 

 

“I know,” you say dispiritedly, your shoulders slumping, “But I didn't know what else to do”-

 

“You could have said, ‘I'm sorry that you’ve been wasting your energies on me for so long, but when it comes down to it I don’t feel that way about either of you?’” Sally interrupts to suggest. 

 

“Sally I couldn't have done that! That’s horrible,” you blurt out. 

 

“Horrible but true,” Sally reminds you. 

 

“What am I going to _do?”_ you whine. 

 

Sally takes a moment to think. “Okay, revised plan. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to accompany my boss to the dance. Then, when the inevitable happens and he asks you out, you’re going to let him down gently. You’ll do the same with Sherlock”-you let out another sigh-“I’ll be at the dance too and watching you like a hawk, so no chickening out this time. If you do then I’ll cause a scene and tell them all for you.” 

 

“Fine,” you huff out, not liking the sound of Sally interfering at all, “I’ll do it.”

 

*

 

The rest of the time before the ball is spent in a flurry of getting your outfit ready and on creating every scenario in your head about what might be said between Greg and you and Sherlock and you. Your stomach flutters in anxiety. 

 

Finally the big night arrives. 

 

Greg picks you up at seven, just as you’re doing a little twirl for Mrs. Hudson. You turn back to her and there he is, standing in the entranceway. He looks rather ravishing you must admit, what with his gold mask that has silver curly lines upon it, a grey suit and a golden tie with matching pocket handkerchief. He’s even done his best to comb his hair down for you. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he breathes, his chocolate eyes shimmering with light as he takes in your short f/c dress that has a simple bodice, but a mass of f/c feathers that cover your bum along with your matching f/c mask that has gold lines upon it. “You look amazing.”

 

You blush without being able to help it. You might not like Greg as anything more than a friend, but the fact that someone as charming as him is into you is still highly flattering. 

 

“You both look absolutely lovely,” Mrs. Hudson says, sounding pleased. You smile at her, feeling happy, before you allow Greg to step forwards and escort you outside. You place your hand on the crook of his elbow. 

 

The ball is being held in a hall in a posh house in Kensington. Greg and you take a cab there, and you slowly grow more and more entranced as you look out of the window and admire how the dull, office buildings begin to give way to more leafy surroundings that break up the exquisite residences underneath the darkening navy sky. Greg smiles at you. 

 

By the time you arrive the air is cool, and as you push open the cab door you shiver a little. Greg hurries around from his side to assist you, before he rubs at your hand to warm you. You smile, before your attention goes to the house. 

 

It’s a redbrick one, and the lights, which come from the majority of the windows, cast it in a warm, orange glow. A paler, more silvery light spills down the steps that lead up to the house from the heavy looking strong doors, which are flung open, revealing the side profiles of a man and woman as they stand by to greet every newcomer. Shrubbery lays either side of the house, framing it like the grassy lawns, which border the gravel driveway you’re currently standing on. 

 

“Shall we?” Greg asks. You look at him to see that he’s readying his arm for you. 

 

“We shall,” you smile, placing your hand delicately upon his arm. 

 

He grins, his brown eyes twinkling and mirroring the stars up above. He guides you up the four steps to the house, before he gestures for you to lead the way inside. 

 

“Welcome, welcome,” a woman with her long dark hair tied back says from beneath her red and black mask. She’s not wearing a dress. Instead she’s wearing tight fitting black trousers, which have a slit three-quarters of the way down them, along with a black and red lycra top. 

 

The man beside her simply nods, looking resplendent in his blue and black attire, which is of the same design as that of the woman’s. 

 

Greg nods in return, before he guides you across the bustling black and white chequered entrance hall and through a door that’s flung open to your left. 

 

As soon as you enter the ballroom a little breath escapes you. You feel like you’re walking into a fairytale. There’s so much silver and delicacy everywhere. Sliver platters of food and drink lay off to the side on circular tables covered in white tablecloths. Whilst silver chandeliers twinkle their jewels above your head and blue and silver streamers, balloons and decorations hang from the walls and ceiling. 

 

Greg watches you with a smile. “I’ll go and get us a drink,” he says. 

 

You nod and he gives you a half-smile, before he pulls away from you. You watch as he disappears off into the crowd. Thinking it best that you step aside you head off towards the nearest wall so that you can wait for him. You haven’t gotten very far when you feel something brushing against your arm. You start. But you relax in the next moment when you’re engulfed in a hug by Sally, who’s wearing a brilliant golden dress, a pale white and yellow mask and whose hair bounces all free around her head. 

 

“F/N,” she says, letting go of you, “You've got everyone looking at you.”

 

You blush and instinctively look around. _‘Everyone’_ might be an exaggeration, but you’ve certainly attracted a few admiring glances from the men and a few envious ones from the women. In particular you notice that a man, wearing a light orange cap with a white feather sticking out of it, an orange mask with white flourishing lines, a tan waistcoat over a white shirt, dark brown trousers and a red cloak, seems to be paying you scrupulous attention. You blush for a moment underneath his gaze. _“Oh,”_ you say, turning back to Sally and fidgeting with your hair. “But what about you? You’re looking great too.” 

 

“Thanks,” she smiles. “I'm so glad that my boss decided to take tomorrow off though,” she announces, raising her voice a bit above the noise of people chattering, dancing and the soft, jazz music that’s playing. You look at her, already feeling an unpleasant swirling sensation in your stomach. “He’ll be able to recover from the blow that you’re about to give him that way.” 

 

You pull a bit of a face. “Hopefully I’ll be able to do it in”- you get out, but then you break off because Greg returns and passes a glass that’s full of red wine to you. You thank him and, feeling guilty for what you have to say later, kiss him on the cheek. You take a sip of your drink. Sally sends you a pointed look. You return her gaze. She shakes her head a fraction and gives you a maddening look. You swallow. You’re _really_ not looking forward to the rest of the night. You sip at some more of your wine, wishing that it were something stronger for Dutch courage. 

 

Greg’s eyes widen when he sees how fast you’re draining your glass. He sips at his whisky more quickly. “You’re keen,” he comments, lifting his head up, and you see that his lips are covered in froth. 

 

“Mmm,” you say, hesitating only a moment, before you drink some more. 

 

Sally rolls her eyes. _“Well,”_ she says with a bit of clearing of her throat, “I hope you have a good night. Perhaps I’ll see you later?” she says, looking pointedly at you. You nod. She pats you on the arm and nods to her boss who smiles tightly at her in return, before she leaves. 

 

Your stomach tightens. People might be everywhere, but now that Sally’s left it feels like it’s just Greg and you. You hate it. 

 

“Do you want to dance?” Greg asks, finishing the rest of his drink, taking your now empty glass and putting both glasses aside on the nearest table. 

 

You swallow and nod. “Yeah,” you say, wiping at your mouth determinedly with the back of your hand. 

 

Greg smiles at you encouragingly, before he leads you to the fringe of the throng. 

 

To say that it feels strange dancing with Greg, whose always been more like a protective, older brother to you than a lover at any point is an understatement. It feels odd to have one of his hands entwined with yours and the other on your waist. He steers you a little roughly and steps on your toes. He apologizes straight away and you get the sense that he wants to be a lot gentler with you, but he just can’t help it. His mind is too full of everything and what he wants to ask you in the upcoming future. His eyes never leave yours, but though you make eye contact with him every now and again you find yourself more often than not looking over his shoulder. 

 

“F/N,” he says, his hands tightening on you to get you to look at him as the closing notes of the song play. Your heart quickens. “I-I know it’s still quite early on in the evening and everything, but I’ve, well”- he breaks off, letting go of your hand so that he can tousle his hair awkwardly, before he lets your palms come together. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something for quite some time.” You swallow, your heart sinking inside you as he looks at you in such a hopeful, boyish fashion. You wish that you had another answer to give him. He deserves someone nice. Someone who can treat him better than that ex-wife of his. “Would you-would you- _hell”_ -he shifts. Your throat couldn't be any drier and you couldn't feel any sorrier for him-“I-I guess what I'm trying to say is, _F/N,_ y-you’re my division, so would you possibly go out with me?” You let out a little choked breath and look down. Greg lets go of you. “There’s-there’s someone else isn't there?” he asks, his face serious. 

 

Mycroft’s face flashes in your mind, but then you see Sherlock falling off the roof and a dismissive man with auburn hair tugging his arm away from you, before he hurries down the street underneath the cover of an umbrella just as quickly. Something crumples inside you. “Not exactly,” you say, looking up at him, “I do sort of have feelings for someone else, yes,” you wave your hands, trying to clear your head of it all as Greg’s eyes dim. “B-But Greg,” you say, reaching forwards to touch at his arm. “I’ve always thought that we were just meant to be really good friends. We _can_ still be friends can’t we?” 

 

Greg looks at you. He might outwardly look crestfallen and inwardly feel very disappointed about what you’ve just said, but at the end of the day you’re still you. You’re still the somewhat clumsy, creative person that had attracted his attention when Sally had first introduced you to him in a pub one night a few weeks, before you’d moved into 221C. “Of course we can F/N,” he says, stooping to press his lips gently to your forehead. He lets go of you and disappears to get another drink. 

 

You’re tempted to go after him, but in the end you hang back, realizing that he probably just needs his own space right now. 

 

A little way away Sherlock, seeing the ended exchange, leaves the table he’d been standing close by with John, who’s in brown and white attire, and Mary, who looks resplendent in a canary yellow and white dress with her baby bump visible, before he moves towards you. 

 

“This should be interesting,” John mutters out of the corner of his mouth. 

 

“I give him about three minutes before he’s walking away looking as dejected as Greg,” Mary teases, her hand on John’s shoulder. 

 

John smirks. 

 

You know that it’s Sherlock straight away. If the lanky frame and mop of dark curls hadn’t given it away then seeing those brilliant blue eyes staring at you piercingly would have. 

 

“Sherlock,” you murmur, “You look nice.” You say such a thing not be kind, but because in his dark trousers and blue waistcoat that’s underneath a black jacket with tails he does.

 

“F/N,” Sherlock nods, scrunching up his face a little underneath his blue mask with silver, curly lines. “You look”-

 

 _“Gorgeous,”_ comes a familiar nasally voice, and Sherlock and you both look to the left to see a man who can only be Anderson stood there. He’s wearing a light green mask that has a pattern on it like dinosaur scales, a light brown jacket over a white shirt and a dark green tie and trousers. “She looks _gorgeous_ Sherlock.”

 

“I’m not sure what _you’d_ know about beauty,” Sherlock says, observing Anderson coolly, “If the state of your own attire is anything to go by, but yes, on this occasion you’re right.”

 

Your mouth drops open. “Are my ears deceiving me? Is Sherlock Holmes really?”-

 

“Hush,” Sherlock says, placing a delicate finger underneath your chin so that he can close your mouth, “And dance with me.”

 

Your lips crinkle into an uncertain smile underneath the intensity of his gaze. Sherlock takes you in his arms and pulls you close-

 

“I was just about to ask the lady to dance with _me_ actually,” Anderson’s indignant voice comes. 

 

“ _Really?_ How fascinating,” Sherlock murmurs with a smile. You can’t help but grin a little. “It’s lucky that I got in there first then because I don’t think that she’d want to dance with you anyway. You’re from a pre-historic age that’s full of rules and”-

 

Your mind instantly thinks that, that’s how Mycroft could probably be described. You bite at your lip, before you push Sherlock away. You don’t like where this is going and more importantly you don’t like how it’s making you feel. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Sherlock asks, looking down at you as you duck your head. 

 

“I’m sorry,” you say, looking back up at him, “I-I just”-

 

“Ha! I knew it Holmes,” Anderson jeers, “She’d never go for someone like you”-

 

“Actually I’d never go for either of you!” you blurt out, before you can help it, your eyes glaring at Anderson. They only soften a little when they go back to Sherlock. “I'm not a prize to be won,” you huff, before you stride away from them. You need a drink and to be with your own thoughts. 

 

Anderson’s face sours. Sherlock and he turn away from one another. 

 

By the wall the man in the light orange cap chuckles a little as he watches the scene. “Good for you Miss L/N,” he murmurs, raising his glass of scotch to you in a toast that only he’s privileged to. 

 

You puff out a breath once you reach one of the tables. Facing it you lean against it for a moment and press your fingers into the white fabric of the tablecloth, before you heave yourself back up again and begin to pour yourself a glass of port. 

 

“Men eh?” comes a voice of a man who’s leaning against the same table and facing the opposite direction. You start. “They’re only after one thing.”

 

You glance at him, taking in his short stature, dark hair and deep brown eyes. They’re framed by the black mask with silver lines that he’s wearing. Aside from that said silver and the white drawstrings, which serve to fasten the black cape he’s wearing, he’s clothed entirely in black, right down from his polished shoes to his tie. His fingers rest behind him, curled slightly upon the tablecloth. Blue veins stand out starkly against pale skin. He’s looking at you intently, as if you’re the only other person in the world. “Y-Yeah,” you manage. 

 

He smiles and you suddenly realize that he’s wearing lipstick, blood red and crimson. It’s smudged slightly. You don’t know what to make of him. 

 

“Care to oblige this unfortunately ageing man with a dance?” You look at him rather suspiciously. Considering what he’s just said he’s acting an awful lot like every other man you’ve come into contact with tonight. He turns towards you and raises his hands in supplication. “No strings attached. I promise.” 

 

You smile, feeling more confident. “Okay,” you say, draining your glass.

 

He smirks, reaches for your hand and takes it in his own, before he bends to kiss it. You shiver a little. Both his hand and lips are as cold as ice. If you didn't know any better then you’d swear he was dead. He straightens up and guides you promptly to the floor. He turns back to you and you can’t help but shiver again when he places his hands upon your waist. The cold of his hands seeps through to your skin like soil on a coffin. Slowly he begins to sway. You swallow and join in, feeling uncomfortable when his eyes never leave yours. He’s not looking at you adoringly like Greg had been either, but calculatingly. Your heart prickles, and as the song goes on you long for it to finish. 

 

Finally, when it does, he leans forwards. His breath tickles the shell of your ear, and he finally reveals the Irish accent that he’s been hiding from you when he says, “Love from the devil.” 

 

A jerky breath leaves your mouth. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Suddenly images of St. Barts, a light drizzle and Sherlock falling from the roof play through your mind. The agony you’d felt-both on that day and all the time since-hits you hard, leaving your heart full of a cold, uncomfortable weight. You come hurtling back to reality. The man lets go of you and turns, before you can do anything. He gives you one last smile over his shoulder, before he disappears into the crowd. Your head spins. You let out a couple of choked gasps and stumble backwards. _Moriarty._ You can’t believe it. Moriarty’s back. Your hand comes into contact with something firm and reasonably solid. You make to turn around, an apology forming on your lips, but-

 

“It’s all right. There’s no need for panic. I’ve got you,” a soothing voice says as two hands ghost across your waist. You turn around uncertainly to find that it’s the man in the light orange cap who you’d caught watching you earlier. Pale blue eyes stare at you beneath an orange and white mask. Your heart jolts. The matter of Moriarty and his chillingly cold hands leaves you. You know those eyes, and now that you’re less panicky you feel sure that you know the voice, which had just spoken too. It’s the voice that has caressed against your ear in your dreams, the voice that has whispered sweet nothings to you, whilst its owner’s body half-covers yours and large hands carefully undress you. It’s the voice that you’ve always imagined Mycroft would use if he ever fell in love with you. A soft, sound full of reassurance made only for your ears. _‘The voice that you’ve always imagined,’_ your heart sinks as you come to realize properly what you’ve just thought. Not the _actual_ voice, _or_ the only one he’s been speaking to you with since that day-a cold, dismissive one, which states quite clearly that you are not a priority to him and not someone worth spending time with. You suddenly feel defeated. How could you have let your hopes rise again so quickly? Why can’t you just get over Mycroft without having to do anything silly like confessing your love to him like Sally had suggested? Your despair must show on your face because the man states, “You look disappointed.”

 

“Oh,” you swallow. “Y-Yeah,” you begin properly, stepping back from him and only half-looking at him as if he’s the sun and you’re in danger of being blinded. “For a moment I thought you were someone I know,” you confess. You continue to squint at him. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ a ripple-very slight but noticeable-passes over the man’s face. 

 

You properly realize what you’ve just said. “Sorry, I”-feeling like a bit of an idiot you wave a hand-“I'm not really with it right now,” you push past him and head towards the doors, which lead out onto the balcony. You walk through them and out into the cold night, going right across until you can go no more. You grip loosely onto the rail with your hands and let out several soft breaths, whilst your head properly begins to right itself. Stars litter the now black sky, whilst the gardens lay in shadow before you. You swallow. You hear soft footsteps on the floor behind you. A moment later the man you’d first foolishly believed to be Mycroft steps beside you. You look at him. He glances at you and then out to the gardens, before his eyes go to you once more. You swallow. 

 

“Forgive me,” the man says in that same soft tone that sends a prickle of a sad kind of longing through your heart. “But the man you were dancing with just now, did he-did he do anything to upset you?”-you look at him-“I couldn't help but notice that you looked a little uncomfortable…”

 

You swallow yet again, trying to push the matter of Moriarty aside until you’ve figured out what you should do. Even as you try and do so however you know that you should be seeking out Sherlock and Greg and telling them about it. That you should be finding them. But you just can’t face it. Surely a few minutes won’t make a difference anyway? Moriarty’s unlikely to cause any more chaos tonight. Especially after making his identity so clear to you. He’ll probably be expecting you to lose your mind, run around and tell everyone, and you feel a mad urge to _not_ do what he wants. At least for a little while. You clear your throat and wave a hand. “Oh, it-it’s complicated,” you say, looking out to the gardens again, before you glance back at the man to see that he’s frowning. You can’t explain it, but something about him; perhaps it’s the way that he genuinely seems to care about you and the situation, even though, as a complete stranger, he’s got no reason to, makes you want to talk and reveal more. “I-I came across him a while ago, but we haven’t exactly seen each other in an age. I didn't even realize it was him at first. Usually he speaks differently,” is the best way, in the end, that you can think of explaining things. For how can you tell a stranger about the odd world you’ve found yourself caught up in? About how you live just beneath a consulting detective? About the madness of Moriarty and how you’re still scarred by the events of Sherlock’s apparent death and his return? More importantly about how you’re still traumatized by the way that Mycroft’s seeing fit to treat you? You swallow. You just can’t, and you can’t think about the matter any more right now. You just want to forget about everything, not face up to the fact that you might be getting hurt again so soon when you haven’t even recovered from the last time. Your hands fidget and then tighten upon the handrail. 

 

It’s not something that goes unnoticed by the man. His pale blue eyes dart down to your hands, before they flick back up to your eyes. “That wasn't a very nice trick,” he declares. 

 

You feel both surprised and curious. “No, no I suppose it wasn't,” you comment, letting out a little breath. The man peers at you. You swallow. 

 

“Forgive me also,” the man begins, shifting his position. “But I couldn't help but notice that you seem to have had problems with more than just the one man tonight…” he trails off. You let out a bit of a sigh, before the frown that’s on your face deepens as you wonder just how many other people have noticed. “Sorry,” the man says, seeing the change in you, “I didn't mean”-

 

“No,” you wave a hand, “It’s okay, well, it’s not really,” you correct yourself, letting out a little sigh. “But I don’t particularly want to talk about it right now, _so…”_ you look at the man, hoping for what you don’t quite know. 

 

The man swallows, pondering over how he can distract you. Your eyes lock together and he feels something odd inside him. Something that makes him look away, before he waves a hand pathetically to the gardens and blurts out, “They’re beautiful aren't they?”

 

You look out into the dark. You can barely see anything. “Um, yes,” you say politely. 

 

The man shifts beside you, and you can’t know that he’s cursing himself inwardly and hurriedly trying to think of something to say that will correct the situation. Finally he says the only thing that he can think of, “I don’t want to be presumptuous”-you look at him-“But since we’re at a ball, well, if you wanted to dance again, and if-if you allowed me, then I would do my best to accompany you.”

 

A ripple crosses over your face, before you look back down again, your head slightly tilted towards his. You think about it. “I-I'm not really sure,” is what you get out once you finally manage to look back up at him. You really don’t feel like dancing, not after everything. 

 

His lips part, before he looks away. “Quite right,” he murmurs, before when he glances back at you and finds that you look puzzled he adds, “You have every right to be cautious after what’s just happened.”

 

Again you feel that odd sense of wanting to be more for him. “No,” you say. He looks at you with raised eyebrows. You let out a choked sort of laugh, before your voice softens as you go on, “You know what? I'm determined to have one dance tonight where I'm not anxious all the way through or freaked out at the end.” You turn towards him, not knowing how suddenly breathless he feels. “I'm throwing caution to the wind,” you announce, “So, if your offer still stands after my initial hesitation?”-

 

“Of course,” the man says, turning smartly towards you, before he offers you his arm.

 

The way he does so reminds you of Greg, and you hesitate for a moment, before you place a hand delicately there. He smiles and nods at you, before he leads you back into the ballroom. There, you go across to the edge of the dancers once more, before you both turn towards one another. The man wears an encouraging smile, whilst you wear a hesitant one. He places a hand on your waist and releases a breath. His fingers seem to shift against your side as he looks down without being able to help it. You feel an odd tingling sensation with a strength that you’ve never felt before. It makes you swallow. Slowly the pair of you begin to dance. 

 

“Who’s that with F/N?” Greg asks with a furrowed brow from where he’s standing by the wall, beer in hand.

 

Sherlock, who’s leaning in a rather slumped fashion beside him, looks in the direction where Greg’s nodding and frowns a little when he takes in the tall man who’s currently got one hand upon your waist and the other in yours as you sway delicately together like two autumn leaves about to fall off a tree. As the man slowly turns and allows you to spin underneath his arm for a brief moment Sherlock takes in his long, elegant fingers, gait and general movements and can’t help but think that there’s something rather familiar about him. “If I didn't know better,” he says, frowning even more, “Then going by the size of that nose alone I’d say it was my brother. But he’d never lower himself to such a thing.”

 

“Hmm,” Greg responds, before he wonders, “F/N did say that she was interested in someone. Could that be whoever it is?” 

 

“I saw them talking together on the balcony,” Anderson volunteers as he comes to join them, sipping at his rum through a red and white straw. But when Sherlock and Greg both turn their heads in unison to cast him a dark look he scurries off. 

 

Sherlock and Greg go back to watching you. 

 

You've been feeling a little uneasy throughout the dance. Uneasy because as soon as you’d started dancing more you’d been reminded of everything that had happened, first with Greg and then with Sherlock and Anderson. Even when the man’s sweet with you-smiling and twirling you-you only feel your heart lift a fraction, before it falls down twice as low again when you’re reminded that the man in front of you is not Mycroft and not the man you wish was really there. Not to mention that you know, all throughout that you’re blatantly trying to avoid your responsibilities and put off the time when you’ll have to announce to all of your friends that none of them are safe again. But it’s when you catch sight of Greg and Sherlock staring at you intently over the man’s shoulder as you move around that your heart jolts and you step back properly as everything catches up with you. “Sorry, I-I can’t do this,” you say, turning away with a ducked head. You feel a hand circling around your wrist. You swallow as you look back to find that the man’s staring at you. 

 

“Perhaps a drink at mine would be more to your fancy then? I promise that I’ve got something stronger than what’s on offer here,” he says. 

 

You feel your lip twitching into a smile, but a moment later as you turn back to him and he lets go of your wrist and your hands come together to fidget, you state, “Oh, I-I wouldn't want to inconvenience you”-

 

The man waves a hand. “It wouldn't be any trouble at all. My place isn't far, just around the corner in fact. I dare say you’d be able to hear the music from there if you happened to feel more like dancing later on. I could bring you back in a while.”

 

You swallow, before, deciding to trust both your judgement and him, you nod. “Okay,” you smile. It’s a proper one this time. 

 

The man lets out a little breath and looks relieved, before he comes forwards, places a gentle hand on your back and begins to steer you towards the door. 

 

You haven’t gone far at all though when suddenly a voice that you recognize as Greg’s calls, _“F/N!”_ a little breathlessly. The police officer and Sherlock appear in front of you just a moment later, coming to stand side-by-side, as they look at your companion in a disapproving fashion. 

 

You feel the man’s hand stiffen on your back, before he lets go of you. 

 

“F/N,” Greg says, looking at you, “What are you”-

 

“What Lestrade means to say is F/N that if this man is bothering you then we can”- Sherlock begins, breaking off when you take a step forwards. 

 

“I'm fine,” you huff at them, “This kind gentleman’s asked me for a drink and I’ve said yes, now if you excuse us”- you say, breaking off and pushing your way in between them. You stride out of the door. Your hips sway sassily as you go. 

 

The man darts forwards, eager to keep up with you, but en route, thinking it best, he chooses to step alongside Sherlock and put his mouth close to the consulting detective’s ear. “It’s me,” he murmurs, “I'm taking F/N back to mine, and if you know what’s good for you then you’ll leave us be.” Sherlock’s eyes widen and seeing that he’s got the message the man hurries after you with a thin-lipped smile. 

 

“Sherlock, is everything all right?” John asks, coming towards them with Mary, Sally and Anderson in tow. “Who was that man with F/N?” he asks a little breathlessly. 

 

“I think that’s something we’d all like to know,” Greg says, folding his arms and looking sideways at Sherlock. “What did he say to you?” he asks with a frown upon his face.

 

“That,” Sherlock shifts his position, looking very dearly as if he’d like not to say his next words, “Was my brother, and he seemed to want some _alone_ time with F/N,” he grimaces. 

 

Greg’s mouth drops open and John looks bewildered.

 

 _“Finally,”_ Sally breathes. Everyone stares at her and she folds her arms, before she sends them all an exasperated look. “F/N’s had a thing for him for ages,” she adds, “Are all of you really that blind?”

 

“Well I'm not, and neither is Mrs. Hudson,” Mary quips, “We've both seen the way she looks at him”-

 

“God, it’s always the ones that you think are gay who get the girl isn't it?” Anderson asks moodily. 

 

Sherlock sends him a bit of a baffled look, before he says, “I haven’t.” He looks at Mary in a disgruntled fashion. “Seen the way that she looks at him,” he clarifies, folding his arms.

 

“Yeah, I haven’t either, and for another thing did none of you think to tell us?” Greg asks, torn between indignation and exasperation.

 

“Aw, but it was so sweet to see the way that you were all fighting over her,” Mary coos, before she adds as she turns to John, “I'm including you in that.” She pinches at her husband’s cheek. He swats her hand away, looking embarrassed. 

 

Sherlock, Greg, John and Anderson all slope off to get a conciliatory drink a moment later, leaving the girls to titter and laugh behind them. 

 

*

 

“Sorry my dear,” the man says once he catches up with you in the entrance hall, “But I’ll have to leave you again for another moment”-you peer up at him with puzzled eyes, whilst his hand goes to rest upon the small of your back-“I left my umbrella in the corner over there. I won’t be long,” he finishes, smiling apologetically at you, before he hurries off to fetch said item. 

 

You watch him as something shifts inside you. First at the term of endearment and then at the reference to an umbrella. Both are things that you can relate to Mycroft. You feel a pang as you remember that, that was what he’d called you once. But it can’t be, you think. You shake your head. It’s just your mind clutching onto any foolish hope that it can find once more. Mycroft would never have come here, and he most certainly would not have been so sweet with you, _or_ have asked you to dance. Those are all just misguided delusions that you’re harbouring. Why, Mycroft’s probably in a big house somewhere doing paperwork right at this moment, whilst he sips at scotch or whatever beverage he favours on a cold night such as this. You smile without being able to help it as the sudden image of him drinking hot chocolate enters your mind. 

 

“Right, I'm back with you,” the man says, sweeping up to you with a bit of a tight smile upon his face. You jerk out of your Mycroft-involved thought and focus on the present. 

 

Once you’re by the heavy, brown doors again it becomes apparent that it’s drizzling. The man frowns and stops you from proceeding by putting a delicate hand upon your midriff. Your lips part as a breath hitches in your chest. You look at him. He withdraws his hand apologetically. “Forgive me my dear,” he says, “But I did not want you to get wet, or indeed for you to fall. Just give me one moment”- he breaks off so that he can open his umbrella. You step away from him to give him some space. Once it’s open in front of him he glances at you. You step closer to him, before you put your hand on the arm that he’s offering. He smiles and nods at you, before together, and with him pointing the umbrella out dead straight in front of him like a sword, you move forwards. Once you’re outside he momentarily stops again to lift the umbrella above you and you use the opportunity to adjust your grip on his arm. “Careful,” he murmurs warningly as you both move gingerly down the steps. His body is half-turned towards yours, so that he can be on hand at once should you show any signs of falling. You make a sound of acknowledgement and nod, your eyes focused on the steps. 

 

It’s a relief to be down them, and the rest of the walk proceeds quite pleasantly. Your hand remains on his arm and his body stays close to yours to help shield you from the cold night as your breaths dance in a cloud in front of you. Everything sounds muffled in the quiet of the night and is coated in darkness, as if the now black sky is clutching at it all with a clawed hand. But even so the sound of an owl manages to find its way through to you, making you shiver and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. 

 

“A tawny one I believe,” the man murmurs reassuringly beside you. You nod, unwilling to speak just in case your teeth chatter.

 

Finally the man places a hand on yours and steers you towards the left. You inhale sharply. The red brick house is set back from the street by a small driveway. Branches from a large tree on the left reach towards the grand, two-storey property, whilst shrubs stand either side of the door. 

 

“Yes, it’s rather nice isn't it?” The man asks, sounding pleased by your reaction as he lowers and closes the umbrella. It’s no longer drizzling, and it suddenly occurs to you that it hasn’t been for a while. You wonder if the man had simply kept the umbrella up so that he could be close to you. 

 

“It’s _very_ nice,” you correct, as you come out of your thought and move after him. 

 

You can’t see him smiling, but you can tell from the hum he releases that your words have made him happy. You smile. 

 

He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, guiding you with one hand inside. You look at him happily and allow yourself to be propelled forwards. Once the man switches the light on you find yourself in a narrow hallway that has an umbrella stand and coat hangers off to the left. The beginning of a staircase veers off to the right. It’s not immediately impressive, but as the man reaches around you with an apologetic smile to deposit the damp umbrella, before he begins to lead you to the back of the house, you begin to get a sense that the rooms are expensively furnished. 

 

Once the lights are on you see that the kitchen has a black diamond pattern on a white floor, sliding doors that lead to other rooms on the right, a light brown wooden table and chairs just in front of you. The principal area for cooking and preparing food is on the left and almost behind you. The black counter tops glisten and gleam. 

 

You come to a stop by the wooden chair that’s closest to you and shift your position. You’re not quite sure what to do. The man glances at you and smiles, curling his hand around your waist briefly as he moves past you, despite the fact that there’s enough space for him to do so without touching you. You feel a strange fluttering inside your stomach. He walks horizontally across the room, turns towards the nearest counter and bends down, peering at where alcohol is kept in a wooden rack. He hums as he considers. 

 

You shift again. “Please don’t worry,” you tell him, “I'm sure that whichever one you choose will be fine.”

 

He glances back at you, before he turns away and finally decides on the _Notorious Howell Mountain Cabernet Sauvignon 2012._ “I know that you probably were wanting something stronger and different from wine,” he says, straightening up, “But this is really a very nice one. I’ve been saving it up for quite some time and it’s appropriate too for the upcoming season. You’ll find that it has blackberries and other dried fruit in it along with baking spice and vanilla oak”-he looks suddenly sheepish-“But I’ll let you taste it and see for yourself of course.”

 

“It sounds lovely,” you tell him with polite encouragement. 

 

He smiles at you, before he moves around the counter to select a couple of glasses from one of the cupboards. “It was because of those men wasn't it? The reason that you stopped dancing?” he asks as he moves back around to the counter. He looks at you enquiringly, before he begins to pour the wine. 

 

You rub your lips together anxiously and move to stand opposite him, so that you’re on the other side of the counter with your back turned towards the main kitchen area. You feel like you haven’t had nearly enough alcohol yet to be in a state where you feel comfortable sharing the mess of your love life with a complete stranger. He watches you curiously for a moment, before he pushes one of the glasses towards you. “Mmm,” you murmur, once you’ve lifted it up to your lips, tasted some and its hit the spot. “Yes, yes it was,” you say, lowering the glass. 

 

The man tops up your glass, pushes it towards you again and looks at you studiously. “Forgive me, but don’t any of them take your fancy?”-You look at him-“I mean all of them did seem a tad pushy to me, but they seemed to be overall very caring and protective of you, not that you need taking care of, of course.”

 

You smile at his last remark, before you let out a wistful sigh and move forwards so that your body is right up against the counter. The man stares at you from the other side, watching as your hand reaches out so that your fingers can curl around the stem of your wine glass. “No,” you murmur in a defeated fashion, whilst you peer down. “I mean they’re all really nice guys. On the whole they've all been good friends to me. That’s why-well-why I didn't want to upset any of them tonight. I found it difficult telling them that I don’t like any of them in that way, but Sally, she’s my friend”-you clarify, looking up-“She said that I should, and as usual she was right,” you add grudgingly. “I know, at least now, that it probably won’t affect any of my friendships with them, but maybe…well, I guess a little voice inside my head can’t help but say that maybe I should have just picked one of them after all”-

 

“Even though you don’t feel the same way about any of them?” the man enquires. 

 

You let out a little breath. You know that he’s probably thinking that you doing such a thing wouldn't exactly be very nice for whomever you picked, _and_ that you’re not a good person. “There’s this other man,” you finally confess, trying to re-gain some favour in his eyes, even though it’s hard for you to talk about such a thing. 

 

“Ah, someone you _do_ like?” the man asks, his hand suddenly swooping to grasp at his wine glass, but though he lifts it he doesn’t quite bring it to his lips. 

 

“Yeah,” you nod, keeping your eyes on the black counter top rather than daring to meet his. You hear him sipping at the wine, but sense that his eyes are still upon you. “It’s complicated though,” you admit. 

 

“How so?” the man asks, radiating a quiet intensity. 

 

You shift your position. “I don’t think he’d look at me like that, not ever”-

 

“In that case you’ll have to forgive me again my dear,” the man says. 

 

 _“Oh?”_ you ask, looking up. 

 

The man smiles briefly and swallows, before he says, “Yes, you might consider this me speaking out of turn, but I feel sure if this gentleman you speak of-at least I _hope_ that he’s a gentleman-had seen you at the ball tonight then he wouldn't have been able to take his eyes off you”-your heart soars-“My dear,” he says softly when you continue to look at him, “You’d have to be an idiot not to notice that you look beautiful tonight.”

 

You smile, before you duck your head embarrassedly. One of your fingers prods at the counter top, before you look at him shyly. “Y-You really think that? That I'm pretty? Y-You’re not just saying that to cheer me up?” you ask, scrutinizing him. 

 

“How do you think I know about certain events that have befallen you this evening?” he asks with a knowing look in his eyes. “It’s not because they drew a crowd of observers, but rather because I could not take my eyes off you from the very moment that you stepped inside the ballroom.” You let out a breath. He smiles and comes around the counter in a predatory fashion to join you. Your heart skips a beat. Feeling apprehensive you turn towards him. He peers down at you. Both slowly and carefully he runs the back of his hand to a point that’s halfway down your arm. You shiver and watch as your skin meets. “Forgive me,” he murmurs. Your eyes go to him again. “But if you let me then I’d rather like to kiss you, just the once.” Your mouth tumbles open, before your tongue goes to lick at your lips anxiously. The man bends down when you don’t protest and moves you delicately towards him with one hand, before he brings your lips together. Due to your masks it’s a bit clumsy and awkward, and you bump together more than kiss. The man makes a frustrated sound, and you only feel the lightest of touches and taste the faintest trace of alcohol on him, before the sudden sound of drizzle pattering against the window comes. You pull back. 

 

“Sorry,” you murmur, as the rain that had been at St. Barts that day flashes in your mind. The man looks at you concernedly. “The kiss was fine,” you reassure him, “I-I just don’t feel much like-it’s the rain,” you wave a hand to the window, before you look out of it desperately. “It makes me remember”-

 

“Things you’d rather forget?” the man questions lightly, going back around to the other side of the counter and sipping at his wine. Disappointment swirls inside him. 

 

“Yes,” you nod. “Sorry, you’ve been really nice to me and I'm being miserable.”

 

“It’s no matter,” he says, waving a hand, but your heart sinks because you get the sense that it _does_ matter and that he knows such a thing. “Tell me,” he adds, returning his wine to the counter, “What is it that the rain reminds you of?”

 

Tears prick at your eyes as you remember that wretched day when you’d thought you’d lost one of your closest friends. You stare hard down at the counter top and blink, trying to clear your vision. 

 

 _“More?”_ the man asks. You look up to see that he’s holding the bottle of wine in a tilted fashion. 

 

“Mmm,” you nod gratefully, pushing your glass towards him. He tops it up generously. You spend a few blissful moments sipping at it with your eyes closed. “This probably won’t make much sense to you,” you tell him, opening your eyes again and lowering your glass to the counter, “But a while ago I believed that one of my friends had died”-the man lets out a little breath. You cannot know that it feels like invisible needles are pricking him, stabbing at his stomach-“One of the men you saw tonight actually. I watched him fall off a roof in the rain, before he hit the ground. Only it turns out it was a trick,” you go on bitterly, “He _hadn’t_ died”-

 

“I”-

 

“Two years. He let everyone think that he was dead for two years, before he came back”-your body’s shaking and you make to clumsily lift the wine up to your lips. You attempt to sip at it, but you hardly take any of the liquid in because your lips are trembling so much. You lower the glass to the counter. “That was bad enough. I mean can you _imagine?_ But there’s something that, in my opinion, is just as terrible”-

 

_“Oh?”-_

 

“His brother. The man I was telling you about? The man I _like?”_ -the man’s eyes widen, but you’re too engrossed dealing with those feelings of renewed hurt to notice-“He-well, before his brother fell off the roof”-you take a deep breath-“Before that day, this man had been fairly nice to me. We didn't speak much at first, but because I live just underneath where his brother does we slowly begun to talk to one another. I-I would have liked to have counted him as a friend if anyone had asked. We seemed to get on. I-I wouldn't have dared dream that he’d ever-that he’d ever fall in love with me or anything silly like that, but I liked him, I enjoyed his company.” You pause and drink some more. “Then that day came,” you say heavily as the glass touches back down on the counter. “A-And it was like everything changed. I don’t know where he lives, but I tried to find him at his work. He’s got this PA and I tried to make an appointment with him through her. She said that he was always busy. I waited for him outside, but he always went right past me. He’d never talk, and if he did then he was always so dismissive. I screamed at him one day that the death wasn't my fault and that he should just stop taking it out on me, but although he paused briefly, he just carried walking right on in the next moment. I went to the club he goes to, but they wouldn't let me in. I could see him through the window. I knocked on it, but he ignored me, simply turning his head away. A moment later this security guy came out and asked me to leave. All-All I ever wanted to do was to make sure that he was all right. What was wrong with that?” you gasp, waving your hands and turning your hair into a blown up version of its usual self. “Two years went by, and though I’d not forgotten about him I no longer tried to contact him. If it led to humiliation-and often a public one at that-then what was the point? He obviously didn't want to have anything to do with me. Then it was revealed that his brother hadn’t died, and I found out that this man had known the truth all along”-you let out a shaky breath-“That’s when I realized how much he must despise me, because what man, what _type_ of man does that? Lets a friend believe that someone’s dead for two years? I felt hurt, angry, but something stupid inside me still hoped that he’d come and see me, that he’d talk, that he’d just _explain,”_ you let out a strangled breath. Your eyes are shiny with tears as you look down. “But he didn't. He never came around and he’s only shared the briefest of words with me since…who _does_ that?” you ask, looking up at him again. 

 

“Someone like me,” the man swallows. You look at him in puzzlement. 

 

He smiles at you rather sadly, before he reaches up and takes off his hat. Your eyes widen at his familiar auburn hair. It can’t be, but then it’s as if all the clues suddenly flash before you-the eyes, the voice, the umbrella, the term of endearment, the big house that you’re currently standing in, which you know would be more than well suited to the British Government. Your mouth opens. It can’t be, but somehow you get the sense that it is. The man studies you, before his hands go up again, this time to take off his mask. Slowly he tugs it off and pulls it away from his face, before he rests it down next to his hat upon the counter.

 

A jerk of breath leaves your mouth. “My-Mycroft, oh God, oh _God”-_  
you break off and stagger back, lifting up your trembling hands to cover your mouth. 

 

He eyes you cautiously, before he raises his hands in supplication. “I understand if you want to leave. I even understand if you never want to talk to me again. I have treated you horribly, _appallingly,_ far worse than my brother or any of those other men. I have no right to judge any of them. But this-this right here is me trying to explain, if you’ll let me.” His eyes are wide, pleading. His face is pale and you’ve never seen such a look of fearful apprehension about it before. When you don’t do anything but let out a little gurgle in between your shaky hands he takes a step towards you and goes on, “After the events of that day-after Sherlock fell from the roof, it-it was vital that I told no one, that I let everyone believe he was dead. If I’d told you”-

 

“Okay, I don’t like it, but I suppose I can get that,” you nod, “Moriarty’s henchmen had to believe that he was no longer a threat, so that they wouldn't expect him to be after them, and it would have looked really odd if I was suddenly happy, but why couldn't you have just talked to me? Why couldn't you have just”-

 

“I did it for your own protection,” Mycroft says in a strained tone, pleading for you to understand. Your eyes widen. His hand jerks suddenly, as if for a moment he’d considered grasping at yours, but then thought better of it. “There were men,” he says, “Watching you, John, everyone Sherlock had ever been in close contact with for days after the fall. I was of the belief that if I treated you more favourably than they’d mark you down as a better target than the rest. Even when things settled down, I didn't dare…I knew that one wrong move could have you killed”-

 

“But I'm ordinary, a _goldfish,”_ you splutter. “Why did it matter if I died?”

 

“Goodness F/N, you’ve never been ordinary,” Mycroft exclaims, “As for why it matters, well it matters a great deal”- 

 

“But”- you struggle, “As a mere scriptwriter, surely I'm less useful than someone like John, o-or Greg is to you?”-

 

“Dear God F/N,” Mycroft says, turning away from you, “Is that _really_ what you think of me? That I’d let you die just because you aren't as useful?”- he breaks off, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

 

You watch as he takes one deep breath, followed by another. _“But”-_

 

He turns back to you, looking like he’s got himself under better control. “I suppose I can’t blame you for such thought. I treated you so cruelly after all,” he waves a hand, dismissing that line of conversation. _“But,”_ he looks at you imploringly; “You have to know that I did not relish treating you in such a fashion. I knew that there was a chance it would damage the little friendship we had beyond repair”-you let out a breath-“It hurt me to do that to you, especially when I could see the effect it was having. But when-when you stopped trying to talk to me I confess that I rather thought the pain I’d put you through had just come to its natural end, rather thought that you’d moved on”-

 

“No you didn't,” you say softly, shaking your head as you move around the counter towards him. 

 

“I _hoped,”_ Mycroft says with a pained smile and a bit of a shrug, before his breath hitches inside his chest. He turns towards you, his hands still in his pockets. 

 

 _“Why?”_ you enquire, placing your hands tentatively upon his shoulders. 

 

“Because,” he begins, taking his hands out of his pockets and raising them cautiously to rest upon either side of your mask. You stare up at him imploringly. “I couldn't bear the thought that I was continuing to ruin and spoil something so precious, _ruining_ you. Couldn't bear the thought that you hated me…” he trails off and makes to lift your mask up, but before he can do so fully you grasp at his wrists. 

 

“But I'm right here,” you tell him, “And despite everything I don’t hate you.” 

 

“So you are,” Mycroft says. His lips quirk upward. Then, as your bodies come together he finishes tugging the mask off and tosses it aside, before he presses his lips clumsily against yours. You shift against each other. His hands move to cup at your face, whilst one of yours pushes his head more firmly to yours and the other clings onto his shoulder. The kiss transforms into an open-mouthed one and his hand snakes around to your back in order to further support you. You let out a moan and push more insistently against him. You've never been kissed like this before, _so_ passionately, as if all the longing has been stored up in all the days and years that you’ve both waited and is now exploding between you. Mycroft’s tongue dances with yours and you let out another moan, closing your eyes even more tightly. You feel like you’re in heaven. _God,_ the wait was so worth it, all the pain, all the heartache. “I love you,” you say into his mouth, wanting him to know that more than ever. 

 

Mycroft pulls away from you with a smack, panting a little as he stares at you out of stunned eyes. Even without your clear enunciation you can tell that he knows what you’ve just said. Your hand goes up to clutch at his cheek. You swipe your thumb across it. Looking more relieved he makes to move in for another kiss, but then he seems to change his mind at the last moment and pulls his head back. Your hand drops to his chest as you frown at him. “I feel the same. You have to believe me. I never meant to do that to you. All I wanted to do tonight was try and re-connect with you”-

 

“You know that you could have done that without being all mysterious at a fancy masquerade ball? You could have just come to my flat and knocked on my door,” you say, and though your tone is a little firm it’s light too because you can tell that he’s in his head again. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, but as he steps back from you he still looks a little sad and uncertain. You stare at him consideringly. _“F/N,”_ he mutters, “You should know that as much as I wouldn't want to, if-if the same situation arose, then I”- he breaks off. His body is completely still as he stares at you. 

 

“I know,” you breathe, and something flickers across his eyes, “You’d do it all over again. For Queen and country. For your _brother,”_ you step back and turn you head. “I don’t want to be hurt like that again”-

 

“Quite right,” Mycroft says through tight lips, and you can tell that even though you’ve just confessed your feelings to each other he still thinks that ultimately you’re rejecting him. 

 

“No,” you look back at him. He’s got his hands in his pockets. A puzzled expression takes over his face. You let out a little breath and step towards him. “I mean I wouldn't _like_ to feel hurt like that again, but at the same time I'm not willing to sacrifice all of the good moments just because I might”-Mycroft’s eyes widen-“It’s you,” you choke out, “I’ve always loved you and I'm not willing to let you go now that I know you feel the same.” 

 

Your lips come together. The kiss is a gentler one this time, but no less adoring as it is full of relief and renewed hope. 

 

“I-I don’t want to be presumptuous”- Mycroft begins once you’ve pulled back a fraction. 

 

“No,” you murmur, toying at his outfit, but still looking up at him. 

 

Your voice is playful and you’ve got this amused smile on your face that makes his head spin. “I wouldn't usually do this, but-but there’s a bedroom upstairs if you wanted-if you wanted to continue?” He shifts his position, his hands upon your waist. He looks the most awkward you’ve ever seen him and you love him all the more for it. 

 

“I wouldn't usually do this either, but _yes,”_ you breathe, before you kiss him again. 

 

His heart soars, but he only kisses you back briefly, before he reaches his hand towards yours. He wriggles his fingers tantalizingly and you let out a choked snort, before you let your hand slip into his. He leads you out into the narrow hallway. Once you reach the bottom of the stairs he looks back at you, but you squeeze his hand. That is all the encouragement he needs to continue guiding you upstairs. You come around the corner and go up the few remaining ones. Mycroft tugs you gently into a room that’s on the right. He lets go of you and switches the light on. You take a step forwards and look around. 

 

It’s smaller and more intimate than you’d expected, but oddly enough it feels right for what you’re about to do too. A dark wooden panelled wall lays to the right. The bed, also on the right in the middle and small and old-fashioned, takes up a lot of the room. A dainty chandelier hangs above it, whilst a bedside cabinet lays off to the right side with a small alarm clock upon it. Windows lay dead ahead, covered now by flowing floor-length white curtains. A floral-patterned seat lays in the far left corner. Whilst a full-length mirror lays in the bottom left hand one. Just behind you rests an expensive looking wardrobe and chest of drawers. 

 

Mycroft turns towards you and you both swallow at the same time. You let out a little nervous laugh. You definitely hadn’t expected to find yourself in this situation tonight. “You like it?” Mycroft asks, smiling softly. You nod. “Good,” he breathes, stepping towards you. Your heart hitches in your chest. He cups at your cheek and kisses you briefly. “I'm not sure how I'm going to get you out of all of these feathers,” he murmurs. “I think I’ll have to pluck you.” You can tell that he’s somewhat nervous as his hand moves down to brush against your neck. 

 

“I'm sure you’ll find a way,” you tell him in a soft, fluttery breath. He chuckles-a pleasant sound that warms your ear-before his lips claim yours. 

 

He leaves a trail of kisses down your jaw, before he does the same to your neck. You push and moan against him, your hands tightly on his back. He leans away and his hands go to prise and tug at your dress. You get both it and all the never-ending layers he’s wearing off in between several fervent kisses as you both gasp and wriggle against one another, both growing more and more desperate as time passes. Every so often Mycroft pauses to suck at your collarbone, before he does the same to your breasts. You arch your head back and cry out, before, finally both naked, you let him maneuver you to the bed. You fall down on it together, knocking some of the cushions off it with your splayed hand as he falls on top of you. You kiss and grope at each other’s bodies for several moments more, making several exclamations of adoration and yelps of surprise, before he enters you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt. Your hands alternate between clawing onto his back and the bed cover, whilst his lips nip at yours. Consumed by passion you pant into each other’s mouths as he begins to thrust. When he increases his pace you both find yourselves letting out cries of exultation. You fall against each other and then into a blissful sleep, your bodies entangled as you lie there together on the covers. 

 

*

 

When you wake that morning to sunlight streaming through the window and a slightly bleary head you don’t remember where you are at first. All you know is that the bed beneath you feels different, more solid and firm than your own, and that you feel oddly cold. You let out a bit of a groan. Your hands grasp at the bed cover, before you blink into life. One of the first things you realize is that you’re naked and Mycroft Holmes-completely naked too-is lying on his side, half-turned towards you, his head propped up with his hand. The fingers of his other carefully stroke at your hair. 

 

“Good morning,” he smiles. 

 

“Morning,” you return, before you can’t help but ask, “Last night actually happened then?”

 

“It did,” Mycroft smiles, and you grin and flush as the memories come back to you. 

 

You roll towards him, before you share a brief kiss. 

 

“I’ve been wondering,” Mycroft murmurs, looking at you all the more seriously, “Who the other man was at the party? The one who upset you and who you said that you once knew?”

 

You think about it for a moment, and it takes your mind a little while to go back to how scared you’d felt after that one dance and how distracted you’d become, before you reveal, “It was Moriarty,” and as you do so the full impact of your words and the situation hits you and you curse yourself for not having said anything sooner. 

 

Mycroft’s lips part. “Right,” he says, swinging upward into a sitting position. 

 

You sit up too, swallowing. You suddenly wish that you’d never said anything. Wish that you could just stuff the words back into your mouth. Perhaps if it was about anyone else other than Moriarty you could have. Perhaps then you wouldn't have had to say anything in the first place. You open your mouth, but before you can say anything Mycroft clambers off the bed and begins to get dressed. 

 

You watch legs sliding into grey trousers, before you say, “I”- but Mycroft raises a hand. You cut off instantly, releasing a sharp breath instead as you go back to watching. Watching as that freckled back, which you’d clung onto so tightly last night gets covered up by a white shirt. Watching as he leaves it unbuttoned for a moment and goes to sort out the puddle of clothes, which you’d both left on the floor. He sorts his from yours with a bit of a clearing of his throat, whilst you blush in the cold light of day, before he puts your dress and undergarments delicately down on top of the duvet. He only glances at you quickly again, before he looks away. He leaves the room on the pretence of taking last night’s clothes to the bamboo wash basket. You can’t know that, whilst away from you he sends a coded text message to Sherlock and another to Anthea that’s full of instructions. 

 

When he returns he finally looks at you properly as he says, “Right.” His fingers begin to do up the buttons of his shirt. Your breath hitches. “This is what you’re going to do.”

 

*

 

You leave Mycroft’s house half-an-hour later, not wearing the dress you’d been adorned in that previous night, but rather one of Mycroft’s light-blue shirts, a warm, white turtle-neck and some black trousers of his that are held up by braces. All of his things are too big for you. You've had to roll up the sleeves of both the jumper and the shirt. But you’d told him embarrassedly that you couldn't exactly walk down the street in the dress that you’d been wearing last night. Not unless you wanted to bring a touch of Spain to a dreary London morning anyway. He’d thought about it for a moment and looked as if he’d never had to deal with quite a problem before. Then he’d muttered something incomprehensible underneath his breath, before he’d said, “Right,” and turned hurriedly to his wardrobe. 

 

The wide black plastic bag, which now carries your dress and bears some fancy logo of some upper-class brand in white swings from your hand. The plan Mycroft’s just told you thrums in your head. Go back to 221C. Act annoyed and frustrated by Mycroft. Make it clear to anyone who asks that when you’d gone back to his and finally learnt of his identity you’d ended up arguing. That argument had then made you realize that your feelings for Mycroft, though once romantic are not any longer. Rather they’re just a pent-up frustration with the way that things had turned out after Sherlock’s fall. You’d been quite ready to storm-out and put Mycroft far behind you, but seeing that it was late you’d finally agreed to sleep in the spare room. Nothing untoward had happened and you’d parted less than amicably, both of you annoyed with one another. Mycroft had said that it was important to create some sort of distance between you because Moriarty would be after him. Your heart had flipped over in anxiety when he’d said that, and you’d protested and worried until Mycroft had made it clear that somehow he’d make sure that you would be able to be together, just not outwardly. You swallow, your mind growing worried as you continue to stride down the street, before you end up jumping when your phone goes off. 

 

You take it out from where you’ve stored it in the pocket of Mycroft’s trousers to see that it’s Sally. You press to take the call and lift the phone up to your ear. “Hi”- you begin. 

 

“Never mind hi,” Sally cuts you off chidingly, “What happened with Mycroft? Or are you still at his and unable to tell me?”-

 

“How do you know that anything happened with Mycroft?” you ask, faking an air of irritation. 

 

Sally lets out a frustrated huff. “Just before you went sauntering off together he let his identity slip to the freak, so that none of us would worry or interrupt you, now”-

 

“Nothing happened,” you tell her, before you reveal heavily, “You were right. He’s just a brick, incapable of love. As soon as we got there and I realized it was him, we just ended up arguing about everything. He refused to accept how much he’d hurt me after the fall and”- you break off suddenly. You can hear the loud revving of an engine behind you. You hear a yell. “Hang on,” you say to Sally. Your jaw contracts as you look around over your shoulder. You hear Sally calling your name questioningly. You don’t reply. All you can properly take in is the fact that an out of control black vehicle is hurtling straight towards you. A flash of the driver is all that you see, before your vision fades. Your body curves in an arc and both your phone and the plastic bag go flying out of your hand. F/c feathers from your dress explode all around you, before your body crumples to the floor. 

 

Just a few meters away an umbrella drops down onto the pavement.


	2. Who Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You manage to forget that you've slept with Mycroft Holmes and the ramifications of such memory loss begins to take its toll on others too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for your support!  
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter! :)

As soon as you’d left Mycroft had just paced back and forth indecisively in the narrow hallway for a moment, before he’d turned, grabbed his umbrella and hurried out. A bad feeling had swirled inside his stomach. His mind had been telling him to stay away from you, and to just let the plan he’d come up with unfold naturally enough. But his heart had told him that he’d been wrong to let you go, told him that something bad was going to happen to you, and on a rare occasion he’d listened to it. 

 

You’d already gotten some way ahead of him. He’d watched the way that you’d marched and the way that the plastic bag had swung from your hand. His eyes hadn’t been able to help but fix themselves upon your dress, which had poked up out of the top of the bag. He’d briefly remembered peeling it off you the previous night and feeling like it would never release you, before finally it had allowed your flesh to be against his. He’d come hurtling back to the present as your phone had gone off. Then he’d slowed down a little as you’d taken it out of your pocket. He’d tensed up, before seeing the way that your body had relaxed somewhat upon seeing who it was he’d begun to consider that he’d just over-reacted. He must have done such a thing because of the feelings he has for you. Feelings, which had solidified inside him last night. Perhaps nothing bad was going to-

 

His thought had been cut off by the sight of a black car going from a slow, crawling pace to a sudden acceleration as it had passed him. He’d yelled out a warning to you without being able to help it, before he’d watched as you’d looked over your shoulder. The car had ploughed into you and all Mycroft had been able to do was stop and watch in horror as your hands had let go of your phone and plastic bag. Your hair had become waves in the air and your body had arched, before it had thudded down onto the cold, damp pavement. 

 

A beat had passed where everything had seemed to be suspended, before a burst of breath had left Mycroft’s lips and he’d flung his umbrella down to the ground. 

 

Now he takes a step forwards, but before he can do anything more than that the car reverses away from you with a screech of tyres, before it charges forward and disappears around the corner. He can hear other witnesses gasping and beginning to move forwards, but the only person he can focus on is you. 

 

“F/N!” Mycroft breaks the distance between you, skids to a stop and releases a puff of breath at the sight of the blood that’s now staining the white jumper. He takes in the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way that your head is tilted back onto the concrete and your shut eyes. As a small crowd gathers he notices that your mouth is pinched in a troubled expression and that your hair is caught in tangled waves about your head. Fresh cuts bloom on the inside of your hands from where you’d broken your fall. He hurls himself onto his knees. He brushes at your hair delicately with his hand, going from the forehead up. “F/N? F/N? M-My dear,” he breathes. He feels a tremble of astonishment inside him at the way that his voice comes out shaky and his hand can’t keep steady as it touches you. Still no response. Finally- perhaps provoked by the mutterings of the crowd-his brain kicks into some sort of sensibility. He withdraws his hand from you and tugs his phone out of his pocket. His fingers seem too large, and they fumble, pressing at the wrong buttons. He lets out a curse, because of all times for him to get clumsy! He shakes his head, tries to get himself together and not pay attention to your unconscious form, which he can see out of the corner of his eye, despite the fact that he can feel his body wanting to slump down and feel the ball of breathlessness that forms tight in his chest. Finally he manages to dial ‘999,’ and lift the phone to his ear with a shaky hand. 

 

“Ambulance please, you have to come quickly, my”- Mycroft breaks off momentarily, before he settles on, “Someone I know has just been hit by a car…Kensington, Addison Crescent. Mycroft Holmes, yes, no…I don’t know, she’s unconscious…she was, yes”- he breaks off and forces himself to look at you again. Either your breaths have become few and far between or you’re not breathing any more. “I-hang on,” he pauses, lowering the phone and shuffling closer to you. He puts his head down to your mouth, so that he might be able to check on your breathing and establish the situation. Every second that goes by without you breathing makes his head spin, but finally he feels the softest of frail breaths hit his cheek. He lets out a strangled one of his own as he swings up from you and lifts the phone back up to his ear. “Y-Yes, she’s still breathing, but it’s very faint, I-I, _please,_ I don’t know what to do”- 

 

“Mycroft, I just want you to take a deep breath for me all right?” comes the firm voice of the middle-aged woman who’s at the other end. Up until this point she’s just been barraging him with questions. 

 

“I”- Mycroft swallows and nods, before he does as she’d instructed. 

 

“Right. The ambulance is on its way and should be with you in a few minutes. Until then you’re going to stay with her and you’re not going to move her. You’re going to keep checking her breathing for me, and if there are any changes then you’re going to tell me and I’ll talk you through what you have to do.”

 

“I-yes-thank you,” Mycroft breathes, his head a mess, as if all his thoughts are suspended in the air and he’s unable to reach any of them. Let alone any of the sensible ones. He reaches to grasp at your hand with his free one. It feels cold, limp and heavy. He strokes it for a moment, breathing in and out in a wheezy fashion as he does so. “F/N, please, please my dear,” he murmurs, lifting up your hand clumsily and kissing it. It’s stained with grime. 

 

“Mycroft, I need you to stay calm,” the woman at the other end of the phone says. “Is there anyone else there that can help you?” 

 

He nods, even though he has never felt less calm, before he remembers that she can’t see him and says, “Yes, but I don’t want anybody else”-

 

“Okay Mycroft, okay,” the woman says soothingly, as she figures that it’s best to just let Mycroft handle this in the way that he wants to. 

 

He continues to stroke at your hand. You don’t show any signs of consciousness and he doesn’t say another word until the ambulance comes-all flashing lights and sirens-a few moments later. 

 

The crowd begins to disperse as the flurry of activity begins. Mycroft reluctantly lets go of your hand and answers a few questions, whilst you’re loaded up into the ambulance. They’re all on their way to hospital in the next moment, Mycroft stuffed in the corner and trying not to get in the way. 

 

The paramedics throw medical terms about for a lot of the journey and Mycroft struggles to keep up with it all. Usually his mind would have little difficulty, but he feels stunned by what’s happened. More than that by the _speed_ of what’s happened. Only a little while ago he was waking up in bed and stroking at your hair and now you’re both on the way to hospital. His shaky hands clench up in his lap, whilst a single tear rolls down his face, sliding by the side of his long nose. 

 

At the hospital you’re whisked away from him and he’s left in the pale pink and white corridor to wait it out. 

 

He sinks into a blue plastic chair and his hands tangle together as he thinks about what on earth he should do next. In the end he only has enough sense to send another two text messages. One of them is to Anthea, this one informing her that he’ll be late and that he wants all the CCTV around the Addison Crescent area this morning to be collected, saved onto a disk for him, and then for the original copies to be deleted. The other to Sherlock informing him of the hit and run and telling him to still give priority to the coded message that he’d sent earlier. Other than that he just sits there thinking and waiting. Finally a doctor comes to see him. 

 

“Mr. er”- the brown bearded and glasses wearing man asks. 

 

“Holmes,” Mycroft offers, his face pale as he stands up and takes in the doctor’s kind green eyes. 

 

“You’re the one who found F/N?” Mycroft nods. “But you’re not a relation?” Mycroft shakes his head, before he thinks that he should have been quick enough to lie. Damn his mind for still not being able to work properly. “In that case I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to disclose any details with you”-

 

“I'm a close friend, is she”- Mycroft attempts. 

 

“She’s in a stable condition presently. I'm afraid that’s the most I can say without F/N’s consent or her family’s permission”-

 

“Have they”-

 

“Yes. Her parents are on their way. Perhaps I shall talk to you more later, but”-

 

“Can I see her?” Mycroft interrupts. The doctor falters. “I presume that I’ll have to wait here to speak to the police, and in any case I don’t want to leave her, so perhaps in the meantime”-the doctor swallows-“We’re close friends Mr. Lox,” Mycroft adds, getting the doctor’s name from his badge, “I assure you that F/N will be quite happy having me there. In fact”- he lets out a little breath-“I think that she’d prefer having a familiar face close at hand should she wake up.”

 

“Very well,” the doctor finally nods, “But if her parents wish for you to leave when they arrive then”-

 

“I will of course respect their wishes,” Mycroft replies smoothly, becoming more of the iceman again. 

 

The doctor nods and begins to lead him to the private room that you’re in. “She’s just in here,” the doctor informs him as they make to stop outside the door. 

 

Mycroft nods. The doctor casts him a serious, calculating look for a moment, before he pushes the door open. Mycroft steps past him. He glimpses you on the bed that’s in the middle of the room and his face tightens as a swarm of information hits him, before he turns back to Dr. Lox with a severe expression upon his face. 

 

Dr. Lox, knowing that this is his cue to leave, bows his head, before he does so. 

 

Mycroft turns back to you. You’re lying there on the bed. The hospital gown you’re wearing is just about visible. Wires are everywhere. He thinks that the clothes of his that you’d previously been wearing have probably been put somewhere for safekeeping, ready to perhaps be taken by the police for inspection. He frowns. His mind may be a little sluggish, but it’s working enough for him to know that although it’s highly unlikely Moriarty was the driver in the car this morning it is unrealistic to believe that his return last night and you getting injured today were pure coincidence. He sighs and pads around to the singular, plastic blue chair that’s by your bedside, taking his phone out as he goes. He sinks down into the chair. **If you’re not already on the deliberate hit and run that took place in Kensington this morning then get on it,** he sends to Lestrade. The more he can control the police involvement on this the better. 

 

He lowers his phone, slides it back into his pocket and looks at you. Another sigh escapes his mouth. His hand goes to yours. It’s quite clear to him now that it’s already too late to try and cover up what had happened between him and you last night. Moriarty already knows, and has already decided to upgrade your status to a worthy target because of it. He supposes that when you come round he’ll have to talk to you. He can put a team of protection in place. He gets the sense that you won’t like it, but what other choice does he have? He lets out a sigh. His hand shifts against yours. He wonders if you won’t want to be with him any more after this, but he gets the sense that you will. You’re far too stubborn to let a mere hit and run get in your way. He has to protect you. He huffs out another breath that flutters against your skin. He’s already _failed_ to protect you. He stares at you. His eyes bulge and something trembles inside him as he leans forwards. You’re in a hospital bed because of him. You could have gotten killed today simply because he’d lowered his guard for one night. Simply because at long last he’d decided to let you in. This is everything that he’s been trying to avoid. He feels frustrated with himself. Frustrated with himself for finally succumbing. A shaky breath leaves his mouth. He raises your hand to his lips and presses a delicate kiss to it, before he lowers it back to the bed and squeezes his eyes shut. You’re not dead. You’re alive, and he has to focus on that and protect you. He will not be responsible for your death, that much he’s determined of. He opens his eyes, nods and swallows. You’ll get through this. He’ll protect you and somehow you can both still be a couple; it’s just a matter of being sensible. Yes, somehow you can do this-

 

Something flickers beneath your eyelids. Your fingers twitch against his. 

 

Mycroft’s breath hitches in his chest. “F/N?” he half gets up out of his seat. You let out a little moan of pain and Mycroft’s heart slams against his rib cage as he leans over you. One of his hands remains by yours, whilst the other hovers uncertainly by your hair. It ghosts over it more than touches it. “F/N? My love, can you hear me?” You let out another sound, this time an incoherent gurgle and scrunch your face up. Your head jerks down beside your shoulder for a moment and Mycroft worries that you might have hurt yourself. But before he can say anything more however your head straightens, your body slides upward into a slumped sitting up position and your eyes flash open. You jerk back from him and look at him hazily. A headache bangs underneath your temple. “It’s all right,” he soothes, cupping your hand with his and brushing your hair back from your forehead. Your eyes bulge with fear and your body goes completely still. “A car hit you, but you’re going to be all right. You’re in hospital.” Your mouth opens and shuts. Your eyes completely fix on him. You feel frozen, like you can’t move your legs. “It’s all right,” he reassures you, brushing the back of his hand gently against your cheek. You pull back from him like a startled horse who’s had a fright, whilst pulling a carriage. “Shh, you’re in shock I shouldn't wonder, but you’ll be”-

 

“I'm sorry, but who are you?”

 

A little jerk of breath escapes Mycroft’s lips. His hand stills, before it tightens upon yours and he moves closer towards you instinctively. “It’s me my love, perhaps you’re not quite awake yet, I”-

 

“I don’t-please let go of me,” you say, twisting your head away, which causes you to let out a gasp of pain. You push his hand aside. Mycroft straightens up and looks at you concernedly. The expression on his face only makes you feel more alarmed. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. “Why are you acting as if you know me when I don’t”- you break off, and look at the far wall instead of at him. 

 

Mycroft steps forwards insistently. You look at him out of untrusting eyes. “I know you and you know me,” he says suddenly, grabbing at your hand without being able to help it. He tries to avoid thinking about the way that his entire insides are quivering. 

 

“Let go of me! Stop touching me! I don’t know you!” you cry. Mycroft’s hand jumps off yours as if you’ve just burnt him. 

 

“You _do_ know me. We went to a ball last night, do you remember it? We”-

 

You shake your head as your headache becomes even more painful and lean back as far away as you can from him when he moves closer to you. His chest becomes almost parallel with yours. “I don’t know what you’re going on about, get away from me. Please, get away from me. Help! _Help!”_ you cry out. 

 

Mycroft staggers back from you at the same time that a harried looking nurse with tied back strawberry blonde hair and severe looking green eyes runs into the room. She looks at you, before her eyes go to him accusingly. 

 

“I didn't do anything,” Mycroft says, raising his hands in supplication. “She awoke,” he continues as the nurse goes across to your bedside, “And she seemed quite out of sorts and panicked”-

 

“You should have come to get me immediately Mr. er”-

 

“Holmes, and yes, I suppose I should have,” Mycroft relents. “B-But she says that she doesn’t recognize me.” The nurse looks at him and frowns. Something flickers across her face, before she looks down at you again. You shuffle closer to her, feeling safer with her than with this strange man who keeps claiming that he knows you and touching you. “She _must_ know me,” Mycroft says, looking at the nurse desperately, before he looks back at you and pleads, “You must know me. You must.”

 

Once more you shake your head. This time erratic tears fill your eyes. “I don’t know you. Please stop saying that I do, because I don’t. I don’t”-

 

“I think you should go now Mr. Holmes,” the nurse says firmly, her voice rising above yours. 

 

Mycroft looks in between you and the nurse helplessly. “F/N, please, my dear, you must, you _must_ know me, you can’t have forgotten everything that happened between us last night”-

 

You shift closer to the nurse, before you raise one of your hands desperately to your lips, whilst tears spill down your cheeks. “Stop talking, stop talking,” you mutter, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. You want this strange man to disappear and to stop crying. You begin to rock back and forth. The nurse’s hand goes to your shoulder to steady you and she holds you to her side like a protective mother, whilst she shoots Mycroft a disapproving glare. 

 

“F/N please, please stop all this madness,” Mycroft says, the words tumbling out of his mouth. He steps towards you. 

 

You turn your head and push it into the nurse’s clothing. “Make him leave, make him leave,” you mutter, rubbing at the fabric, whilst even more tears threaten to leak out of your eyes. You don’t know what’s going on. All you know is that you’re scared and confused by all this, your head’s burning, and you just want a moment’s peace without this odd man looking at you and expecting all these things from you when you don’t even understand what any of it means. 

 

“Mr. Holmes, you’ll have to leave”-

 

“F/N _please!”_ Mycroft urges, losing a little control of himself, “I understand that you’re scared, but please don’t do this! I can protect you!”

 

You flinch and shudder at his raised tone. 

 

_“Mr. Holmes!”_ the nurse reprimands, feeling quite astonished by his behaviour. 

 

Silence. You hear the man-Mr. Holmes-breathing quite heavily. You turn your head cautiously and swallow a little when you take in how his blue eyes are fixed upon your e/c ones. His hands clench and unclench. He seems to be trying to get some sort of message across to you as he stares at you so determinedly, but you have no idea what it is. Finally, once he seems to have resigned himself to the fact that you don’t have any clue of what he wants you to, he breaks the eye contact, turns his head and leaves the room. 

 

_“There,”_ the nurse says once the door has closed behind him, “Perhaps you’ll be able to get some peace now.”

 

“Where am I? This doesn’t feel like Wales”-

 

“You’re in a London hospital dear”- 

 

_“London?”_ You pull away from her, wondering how on earth you’ve come to be in London. But, as you take in her trusting face that question comes to be replaced by a bigger desire. “I want Mother,” you say in a small voice. 

 

“Your parents are on their way dear,” the nurse pats at your hand. She bustles around the other side of your bed. “I'm just going to do some checks on you, so that we can start to make you better.”

 

You nod. Your hands fidget together a little. “Who was that man?” you ask her, as she shines a small light into one of your eyes. 

 

The nurse tuts a little at your question and pulls back. “No one for you to worry about I'm sure,” she says, shining the light into your other eye. You pull a bit of a face at its harshness, but when she goes to jot something down onto the clipboard that’s attached to the end of your bed you look at her consideringly. 

 

“Why was he going on about balls and making out that he knew me?” you ask. 

 

The nurse lets out a little breath, before she raises her head, turns it and looks at you. She lets out a bit of a sigh. “I don’t know about balls and whatnot,” she says, “But that man found you and got help.”

 

You take all that in for a moment. “Was I really involved in a car accident?” 

 

“Yes dear,” the nurse says, looking at you more seriously as she turns towards you. 

 

You pull a bit of a face. “I can’t imagine it. I'm always so careful.” Your hands unlock, before they move down to brush against the bed sheet. Nothing makes sense. 

 

“Well, in any case, the only thing that you need to focus on now is getting better.”

 

You smile, but you frown again as a thought comes to you. “You won’t let that man in again will you?”

 

“Not unless you want me to dear,” the nurse replies. You lean back against the white bars, which make up a rather uncomfortable headboard, feeling more satisfied. 

 

*

 

Outside in the corridor, sitting in another one of those blue, plastic chairs, Mycroft feels stunned and raw from what’s happened. How had he been able to take in some aspects of your physical condition just by looking at you, but not your mental one? More importantly though how can you not recognize him? Not know who he is? He’d thought for a moment that you’d simply been pretending not to, that you’d been afraid because all the possible serious ramifications of you dating him had hit you. But then he’d come to see that no, you really, _genuinely_ didn't know him. Is it just the shock from the crash talking? Might you, if he were to go back in, in a couple of hours, remember who he is, everything about him and all the moments that you’d shared together? Or will you still claim not to know who he is? Not to remember what he means to you? What you mean to each other? He huffs out a breath, leans forwards and scrubs at his face with his hands, driving them backwards into his hair. 

 

_“Mycroft?”_ a voice sounds, followed by loud footsteps, which come towards him. 

 

Mycroft turns his head to see that both things belong to Detective Inspector Lestrade, whose hair looks a mess and who appears to have dressed in a hurry if the state of his rumpled white shirt and jeans, along with a pair of grey scuffed trainers are anything to go by.

 

“Sorry,” Greg says a little breathlessly as he comes to a stop just in front of him. “It’s my non-working day. Sally texted me a garbled version, saying that she was worried something had happened to F/N. Then I got your text and more information from Sally and had the case transferred to me. How is she?” he looks absent-mindedly to the closest door, as if he’s wondering whether you might be behind it. 

 

Mycroft takes about half-a-second to just look away and think, before he stands up. Greg steps back to give him a little more space. “She’s stable,” Mycroft breathes, “Physically she seems to have few injuries, only cuts and bruises. Nothing seems to be broken”-

 

“Well that’s”-

 

“I want you to close the case Detective Inspector,” Mycroft announces. He brushes himself down so that he doesn’t have to look the police officer in the eye. Greg’s mouth drops open. “I will not repeat myself,” Mycroft says testily, finally meeting the Detective’s eyes.

 

Greg shifts his position, his mouth still agape. He stares at Mycroft for a moment, his chocolate coloured eyes coated in confusion. “Let me get this straight. You want me to close a case that’s arisen out of a really good friend of mine being injured?”

 

Mycroft sniffs a little dismissively. “Yes, that’s the scope of it,” he says, making to move around Greg. 

 

He’s barely taken two steps away from him however, before Greg calls, “Is F/N your girlfriend now?” Mycroft stiffens. _“Is_ she?” Mycroft turns around to face the police officer with an even expression upon his face. “Because if she is then she deserves better.” Mycroft’s thin lips tighten like a sail being rolled up on a ship. Greg bridges the distance between them. “How can you even dare consider letting whoever did this get away with it? I was under the impression after what happened last night alone that she meant more to you than that. That you _respected_ her.”

 

“I dare Detective Inspector because I know that if it is pursued only more harm can come to her,” Mycroft says with a bold quietness. “If that is what you want then please”-he waves a hand-“Be my guest.” 

 

_“Why?”_ Greg shifts his position, gesturing with his hands. “Why on earth will more harm come to her if we catch the scumbag who did this?” Mycroft doesn’t say anything. He just looks at the other man levelly for a moment. “Mycroft, if you know something-if you _know_ who did this to her, then you have a right to”- 

 

“I know enough to be getting on with Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says, though his glinting eyes only stay on Greg’s face for a moment, before they move away again. 

 

Greg puts a light hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Mycroft if you _know”-_

 

“All I have is a theory,” Mycroft informs the other man, pulling his arm away. “I have nothing concrete, no _evidence_ to give you, but I assure you that if you don’t want F/N to die then you need to drop this case.”

 

Greg shifts backwards a little and stares at him steadily. Mycroft gives him an equally even look in return. “All right, I’ll see what I can do,” Greg relents. Something that almost looks like satisfaction flickers across Mycroft’s face. “But I want to get a statement from you, _and_ I want to get F/N’s side of things”-

 

“That’s if she remembers,” Mycroft supplies, and there’s a bitter edge to his tone. 

 

Greg looks at him with a furrowed brow. _“What?”-_

 

“F/N seems to be having a few memory issues at the moment Detective Inspector,” Mycroft elaborates, again looking off to the side determinedly rather than at Greg. 

 

Greg’s lips part. “She doesn’t remember last night does she?” he realizes, looking at Mycroft, before he once more looks at the door that you might be behind. 

 

“She’s further down the corridor,” Mycroft informs him stiffly. “For your information things are a bit more serious than that I'm afraid. She doesn’t remember me at all.” 

 

Greg looks back at him, his eyes widening. “Mycroft I'm”- he begins, but Mycroft raises a hand to stop him. He can’t bear having Lestrade’s pity, _or_ bear listening to the underlying question that’s in his words, which asks if you’ll remember him right now. 

 

Greg swallows a couple of times, and looks further down the corridor, before he looks back at Mycroft. The two men lapse into silence. That is until footsteps sound and they politely move aside for a group of four people. A nurse-a slightly softer and more tired version of the nurse you’re with currently-leads a man and two women to your room. Mycroft deduces, amongst other things, that the older man and woman must be your parents, whilst the younger woman must be your sister. Greg, who’d actually met your sister once as she’d joined you in the pub, nods at her as she eyes them both seriously. Your parents however, their faces drawn and worried, keep their faces on a spot dead ahead. The group disappears into your room, and, as if by silent agreement, Mycroft and Greg move to sit down on two of the plastic chairs. A moment passes. 

 

“I'm not sure what F/N’s parents are called,” Greg says, “But her sister’s called Alice. She’s two years older than F/N. They’re from”-

 

“Wales,” Mycroft interrupts. 

 

Greg does not ask how he knows this. “Yes,” he says, “I believe that Alice is in Cardiff, but that the parents still live in the home F/N grew up in.”

 

Mycroft’s fingers shift on his lap, but he does not respond. 

 

A quarter-of-an-hour passes, before the door to your room opens again. The second nurse steps out falteringly and gives them a quick glance, before she points them out to your parents who follow. Mycroft and Greg exchange a fleeting look, before they stand up. The nurse guides your family across. 

 

“The gentleman who found your daughter,” she indicates Mycroft, _“And”-_ her eyes go to Greg. 

 

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” Greg says, shaking their hands. “I’ll be heading up your daughter’s case, but I'm also a friend of hers. I want you to know”- he breaks off and looks uncertainly to Mycroft, before he looks back at them. “That everything will be done to catch the perpetrator.”

 

Mycroft’s face tightens. In fact he feels so suddenly enraged that he rudely ignores your parents presence, turns his head and hisses at Greg, “If I could remind you Detective Inspector of what”-

 

“What’s your name?” your mother asks. 

 

Mycroft looks at her in both surprise and amazement for a moment, stunned to have been interrupted by this slowly ageing woman who now looks at him distrustfully out of eyes that are a similar shape to yours. “Mycroft Holmes,” he says curtly. Greg jostles his side discreetly with his elbow, prompting Mycroft to offer his hand to both of your parents. Once the handshakes have been done a rather awkward silence ensues. 

 

“Were you walking with my daughter?” your father-who Mycroft notices has the exact same shade of colour eyes as you-asks. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat a little. “No, I just happened to see the thing,” he settles on. 

 

“You don’t know her then?” your mother asks.

 

“No,” Mycroft replies a little too quickly, whilst the image of your naked flesh burns itself into his mind. Greg looks at him, wondering why on earth he’s not being honest.

 

“Well, that’s not exactly true, is it Mycroft?” Greg begins. Mycroft shoots him a look that could both be interpreted as a warning one and a glare. Greg smiles a little nervously, before his eyes go back to your parents again. “Mycroft’s the brother of the man who lives in the flat just above your daughter’s,” he explains. 

 

“Still, it’s not as if we know one another,” Mycroft protests, rocking back and forth on his heels with a forced languid smile at your parents. “We’re mere acquaintances.”

 

_“Hmm,”_ your mother says, clearly not convinced. 

 

Something squirms inside Mycroft’s stomach. He’d come to think that it was only _his_ mother who could be so perceptive. Clearly he’d been mistaken. “Is F/N less confused now?” he asks in order to try and get the conversation onto a different, but no less dangerous topic. When your parents just look at him enquiringly however he goes on, “When I popped in earlier-just to check on her-she seemed a little… _puzzled”-_

 

Your mother’s face crumples. Greg frowns at Mycroft. Your father wraps his arm around your mother’s shoulder. 

 

“There’s still some confusion,” the nurse clarifies, “A couple of checks will be done, but I'm sure that F/N will be right as rain in no time.”

 

“She doesn’t”-Mycroft pauses to consider-“Recognize you?” and Greg grimaces at how suddenly hopeful Mycroft sounds. 

 

“Of course she recognizes us,” your mother says, almost indignant. 

 

Mycroft’s mouth forms an ‘O.’

 

“She does however seem to be having a little bit of difficulty with more recent events. Perhaps that’s something you could bear in mind when you question her Detective Inspector?” the nurse suggests. 

 

“That will be taken into account,” Greg confirms with a bow of his head. 

 

“I want to go back to my daughter,” your mother says to no one in particular, before she addresses first Mycroft and then Greg as she goes on, “Perhaps we’ll be seeing each other again. If there is anything we can do Detective Inspector, before we take F/N back to Wales”-

 

Mycroft and Greg both start at that. “Take F/N back to Wales?” Greg asks, whilst Mycroft’s heart begins to thump the hardest that its done since he’d first seen you be hit by the car. 

 

Your mother looks at Greg with surprise in her eyes, as if he’s quite silly for being stunned. “Why yes,” she says, “For no matter what F/N’s injuries, mental or otherwise, and how severe and inhibiting they turn out to be, the best place for her once she leaves hospital is somewhere she can be surrounded by family, somewhere we can keep an eye on her, look after her.”

 

For a moment Mycroft and Greg don’t say anything. Their heads just tilt sideways towards each other’s. “With the greatest of respect Mrs. L/N,” Mycroft begins finally, when he can tell that Lestrade is too concerned with politeness and propriety to say anything, “F/N has a great deal of friends in London”-

 

“Like _you?”_ your mother interrupts, still suspicious of him. 

 

Mycroft is almost rendered speechless. Give him a difficult colleague to deal with any day, but a probing _mother_ …his mouth opens and shuts. “I will of course try and be on hand in any way that I can,” he says finally, “But I am sure that everyone would be more than willing to help out and assist F/N in her recovery. The familiar comfort of her flat might also be better than removing her from the city, and indeed the country altogether.” Greg swallows. He’s only ever heard Mycroft sound that passionate before when speaking about his brother. Once more he gets the feeling that something significant must have happened between Mycroft and you last night. Something that for some reason-perhaps fear-Mycroft’s trying to play down and not reveal. 

 

Your mother just looks at the auburn-haired man who has emerged suddenly into her life, but who is already causing her more hassle than she’d like. “With the greatest of respect Mr. Holmes, what with you being a mere acquaintance of my daughter’s and everything, I think that I know what’s best for her more than you do.” 

 

Mycroft swallows. “Of course,” he murmurs, chastised. 

 

“Now, I wish to see my daughter again,” your mother says, before she, along with your father and the nurse, all make their way back into your room. 

 

Mycroft swallows and watches as they disappear, before he turns and begins to make his way off down the hallway. 

 

“Mycroft wait!” Greg calls after him. Mycroft stops, but does not make to turn around. “Why on earth,” Greg begins, taking a step closer towards him, “Did you want them to think that F/N means so little to you?”

 

“For simplicity’s sake”-

 

_“Simplicity?”_ Greg questions scornfully, “Well that didn't work. If anything her mother’s more suspicious of you now than she would have been if you’d been a tiny bit more honest with her.”

 

Mycroft turns around. “If you must know Detective Inspector, F/N and I slept together last night, and I did not think that such a fact would endear me to her parents. Especially since they clearly have no idea who I am, and what with F/N now possibly being subjected to the same fate I did not wish such a fact to cause her alarm, _or_ for it to frighten her.” Greg gawks. “You see?” Mycroft queries. “It is a shock to you even when you know us both”-

 

“Yes, because it’s so unlike the pair of you”- Greg says, struggling to get the words out, whilst he comprehends such a big idea. 

 

_“Exactly,”_ Mycroft breathes, “I fear it was a poor night for us to be spontaneous. If I had known then I would have never…” he trails off with a sad, regretful smile, before he turns back around. 

 

“You’re just going to wash your hands of her?” Greg asks incredulously, before Mycroft can reach the double doors that will take him into the next section of corridor. 

 

Mycroft turns around and stares at Greg out of calculating eyes. “Perhaps that would be the most sensible thing to do in the circumstances,” he begins. “But no, I fear that it is probably too late for even that now.” He turns his back on Greg, this time disappearing. 

 

Greg looks after him concernedly. He lets out a curse a moment later when he realizes that he hasn’t even taken a statement off Mycroft. A second later his phone rings. 

 

“Is F/N all right?” Sally’s voice blurts out as soon as he picks up. Greg lets out a sigh and runs his free hand back through his hair. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sally questions. “She’s not”-

 

“It means,” Greg huffs, “That as far as I know F/N is in a stable condition. She’s awake”-

 

“Well that’s”-

 

“Not as good as it could be unfortunately”-

 

_“What”-_

 

“Mycroft was with her, just before I came, and it appears that F/N didn't recognize him,” Greg informs her heavily. 

 

Sally lets out a breath. “What do you mean? That F/N’s got some sort of amnesia or something?”

 

“Either that or it could be shock,” Greg says, “Listen, her family’s with her at the moment. I'm going to go in and see her shortly. In the meantime I’d like you to get a group together and go door-to-door in Addison Crescent and the area surrounding it. Ask if anyone saw anything, perhaps a car going around the block several times, as well as if they saw the incident itself. Some of those posh houses probably have CCTV footage, so gather up as much of that as you can.”

 

“Right”-

 

“Sally?” Greg interrupts cautiously. 

 

“Yes?”

 

Greg hesitates for a moment and shifts his position, “Be discreet about this could you? I don’t want there to be a huge and obvious police presence. We should just treat it as a normal”-

 

“Sir, what’s going on?” Sally interrupts, and Greg can see her brow furrowing in his mind. “This is F/N we’re talking about. If it was up to me I’d want whoever did this to know that we’re going to do as much as we can to catch them and that there’s nowhere for them to run.”

 

Greg huffs out a breath. For a moment he doesn’t say anything. In the end he settles on, “Just trust me on this Sally”-

 

“F/N’s my friend”-

 

“Mycroft”-

 

_“Mycroft?”_ Sally exclaims, “What does Mycroft have to do with any of this? More to the point why was he even there in the hospital with her in the first place? F/N said they argued, and from what’s happened I figured that she then must have spent the night in his spare room, before they left each other on bad terms”-

 

_“F/N_ said that?” Greg asks, feeling confused. 

 

“Yes,” Sally goes on impatiently, “I spoke to her just before the incident occurred. She made it clear that things hadn’t gone well with Mycroft”-

 

“Did you”-

 

“Yes, I believed her. I can usually tell when she’s lying, and, to me that felt as if she were being completely honest”-Greg frowns-“Why? What have you heard?”

 

Again Greg hesitates. “Not that,” he finally utters, before when there comes a complete silence from Sally’s end he lowers his voice and says, “Mycroft says that they slept together”-

 

_“What?”_ Sally exclaims loudly, which makes Greg look around worriedly even though she’s not actually there in front of him. “No, no that can’t be true,” Sally says, and there’s a near certainty in her tone. “I’d know if that had happened. If things had gone that well then F/N would have been gushing about it. She would have sounded on top of the world”-

 

“It did make me wonder, when Mycroft told me,” Greg admits, “It just sounded so out of character for both of them.”

 

“Something’s not right here,” Sally says, and she sounds troubled. “Do you want me to question him?”

 

Greg thinks on it briefly. “No, do every house in the vicinity bar his. You and I can go and see him later on. I’ll talk to F/N in the meantime and see if I can get any more sense out of her.”

 

Sally feels enraged when she gets off the phone. If Mycroft’s going to make things more difficult for both this case and you, and add to the general confusion that’s already there, then she’s not going to be happy. More than that though she’s not going to be kind to him. She begins to think about it all as she gets everyone together, and slowly a new theory as to what had happened last night begins to form inside her head. 

 

*

 

You start to feel a little panicked once your parents and Alice leave you and you’re alone again. Your hands fidget together, tugging and twisting at the light bed cover. Your mind goes back to everything that you don’t understand. Back to all the holes and blank spaces, which now seem to occupy your mind. 

 

You’re almost glad when the door opens to reveal the nurse who you’d first seen guiding a man inside. To your relief it’s not the man with the auburn hair-the nurse seems to be sticking to her promise to keep him out-but rather a prematurely silver haired man with chocolate eyes and a kind, worried face.

 

“F/N,” the nurse says, “This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He wants to ask you a few questions about what happened. Is that all right?”

 

You nod falteringly, before you look down again. Your hands go back to fidgeting against the bed covering. You feel the nurse leave and hear the soft pad of footsteps, before the Detective Inspector settles himself down in the seat that’s by your bedside. Your hands still and you look up to find that he’s taking a small notepad and pen out of his pocket. 

 

“You don’t remember me do you?” he asks softly, flipping the pad open. 

 

You bite at your lip. Tears threaten to spill out of your eyes. Your hands shift restlessly again. “I wish people would stop expecting me to know them. I don’t know any Detective Inspector’s. Why would I? I'm just a girl from the country. Yes, my friend Sally keeps telling me I should move to the city, and I think I’d quite like to, but I haven’t got around to it yet.” You pause, before you muse, “I was supposed to be meeting up with her on Thursday. I was coming to London for four days. Sally said that when she wasn't working-she’s a police officer like you-she was going to show me how great the city can be. She was going to introduce me to a few colleagues of hers and try and get me to look at a few flats.” You blink a little. You can’t know how Greg’s heart pangs at the memory you’ve just depicted, whilst his mind recalls how _he’d_ been the one to first suggest you live at 221C. You swallow. “Was it Thursday yesterday? Is that why I'm here? Did I meet up with Sally and then maybe get hit by a car on our way back to hers?”

 

Greg swallows. You’re looking at him pleadingly. How he wishes he could say that yes, that is what had happened and reassure you that your memory isn't as bad as had first appeared. “No,” he settles on. His hand goes to cover yours tentatively. “Yesterday wasn't Thursday F/N, and you didn't get hit by a car last night. You got hit by one this morning.” You frown, before you think that it probably just feels like it’s the first thing in morning because you’d been unconscious for some time. That at least is easily explained. Greg lets go of you. “Tell me, what day do you think it is?”

 

Your frown deepens. If today’s not Friday then you don’t have a clue. Your sluggish mind tries to figure it all out. Could today be Thursday? Perhaps you’d forgotten that you’d arranged to meet up with Sally really early or something. Greg watches you as you try and puzzle it all out. “Thursday?” you attempt. 

 

A flicker of something crosses Greg’s face. “No,” he replies, “Today’s Sunday F/N.”

 

Your brow furrows and your headache feels suddenly worse. “Sunday?”

 

Greg nods. “What year do you suppose it is?” he asks patiently. 

 

You frown. Your hand shifts agitatedly against the bed sheet. You don’t much like this game. “I thought you were going to ask me about the accident?”

 

“I am,” Greg concurs, deciding it best for now that if Mycroft’s right, which he probably is, about this not being an accident, but rather a deliberate attempt upon your life then it’s best not to tell you such a thing when you’re still so vulnerable and confused. “I just want to establish how much you recall about the events surrounding it.”

 

You swallow. Perhaps you’d been a bit hasty in being defensive. This detective seems a lot nicer than that auburn haired man after all, and more than that he’s probably just doing his job. You try and go back to thinking about what year it is. You look around the room to see if there’s a clue. Greg conceals a smile that’s both knowing and sad. “2010?” you offer. 

 

A ripple of emotion crosses Greg’s face, before he jots down your suggestion quickly. “The month?” he asks as he looks back up at you. 

 

You chew on your lip for a moment and look around anxiously. You think you know, but you wish that there were a window close by, which you could see outside of to greater confirm your belief. “February?” you chance. 

 

Greg again writes down your comment, before he looks up at you most seriously. 

 

You can tell by the way that his mouth is drawn in an even line and by the stony look that occupies his eyes that you’re mistaken, and the feeling only makes your heart jump in panic inside your chest and your hands twitch in anxiety. “I-I'm wrong aren't I?” you say, your lip trembling in worry. Greg nods solemnly. Your head burns. “W-What year is it?”

 

“It’s the sixteenth of November 2014,” he replies gravely. 

 

You let out a breath. Your heart begins to pound. Tears roll down your face in abandon. “I-I”- you begin, gesturing with your hands, “How-How can I forget what year it is? Four years-how can I have lost over four years of my life?”

 

“F/N,” Greg says, holding out a hand towards you placatingly, but not touching you. “I want you to try and stay calm for me okay?” You nod falteringly, even though staying calm is the last thing that you feel like doing right now. Greg lets out a little breath. “Right, I'm going to ask you a couple more questions, but I promise after that I’ll leave you be. Okay?” Again you nod, though your breaths come quickly. Greg eyes you warily, before he murmurs, “Right. The first thing I want to know is whether you can recall what happened right before the accident took place?” You don’t even have to think about it. You shake your head. Greg jots down something onto his pad, before he looks up at you with a frown. “You weren’t on the phone to someone perhaps, telling them about the argument you’d had?” Your brow furrows. You feel even more confused. You shake your head. “You don’t remember arguing with anyone at all?” 

 

“No.” 

 

Greg nods, jotting down such words onto his pad. He looks up at you. “You don’t remember being at Addison Crescent?”

 

“I don’t even know where that is,” you confess, dabbing your face dry with the back of your hands and feeling even more panicked. 

 

“It’s in Kensington,” Greg informs you gently. 

 

Your teeth cause your bottom lip to flick as you take that information in. “I don’t know anyone in Kensington.”

 

Greg hesitates. “So you have absolutely no idea how you came to be in Addison Crescent this morning?” 

 

“N-No,” you shake your head, looking down and fidgeting with the bed cover. “I-I think I’d like it if you could go now.”

 

Greg nods and stands up. He’s halfway around the bed, before he stops and turns back to you. “One last thing. The man who was with you, before your parents and Alice”-

 

“I don’t know him,” you say, glancing up at Greg quickly. 

 

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Greg nods, before he leaves the room. 

 

You look back down again. 

 

*

 

When Greg picks up the clothes you’d been wearing-now packed away in a brown paper bag, which has a transparent part running down its middle-he almost thinks that he’s been given the wrong ones when he recognizes them as men’s. Then he realizes that they’re Mycroft’s, and that you’d been wearing _his_ clothes when the car had hit you. Something swirls inside his stomach. Again he wonders about both Mycroft and Sally’s words and which one of them might be right.

 

* 

 

“The door to door has largely been completed. A few people were at work and weren’t in, so uniform will be going back to them this evening. Forensics have been done, but haven’t come back yet. A pile of CCTV has also been collected and uniform will be starting to go through that now,” Sally informs Greg when they meet up outside the police station later that day. 

 

“Good,” Greg says, sliding into the passenger side of an unmarked police car. “Let’s go and see what Mycroft has to say for himself then shall we?”

 

Sally nods, taking up the driver’s seat with a grim expression upon her face. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s not long since arrived home. He’d put it off for as long as he could, sending Sherlock a quick text and seeking refuge in the Diogenes Club instead where he’d received the disc containing all the CCTV footage from this morning. In between watching that all he’d been able to think about was the memory of you rapping against the window that you’d brought up last night and the way that he’d cruelly ignored you. Now he finds himself pouring a glass of scotch from the decanter and staring thoughtfully at where the two masks from the previous night lay on the counter. He remembers the way that you’d smiled as he’d picked yours up off the floor that morning and how such a smile had grown when he’d made sure that it was touching his upon the counter. He senses that you’d deliberately forgotten to take it with you when the time had come. But now he wishes that you had. For as he looks down at them he can only feel an aching sadness. As he looks down at them he can’t help but feel like the holes, that your eyes had peered out of so beautifully last night now represent the blank spaces in your mind into which he, and every memory you’ve ever had with him, have apparently been engulfed. 

 

The doorbell rings, making Mycroft jump, before he realizes that for the longest of times he’s just had the hand that’s holding the decanter tilted even though all the liquid has drained into his glass. He puts the decanter down and takes a quick sip of the scotch, before he lowers the glass and goes to answer the door. 

 

He’s expecting it to be Sherlock-he’d told him to pop around in his text earlier-but to his surprise it’s not. It’s Lestrade and Donovan. Both of them look serious, and for a moment the three of them just take each other in. Mycroft knows that Lestrade’s probably taking in the fact that he’s still in the clothes he was wearing earlier, just as he’s taking in the fact that Lestrade’s in the same clothes too. Whilst Donovan’s whole face seems to tighten with something when he looks at her. 

 

“Mycroft, can we come in?” Greg asks, starting things off. 

 

Mycroft nods without a word and leads the way back into the kitchen. “If this is about the statement I need to do then I was rather hoping that it could wait until tomorrow. As you can imagine I’ve had a rather long day.”

 

Greg’s quite tempted to say that they've _all_ had a long day. But in the end he just says, “Actually, this can’t wait”-Mycroft raises an eyebrow-“Its come to light that there’s an account, which conflicts with what you told me earlier.” Sally folds her arms. 

 

_“Oh?”_ Mycroft asks, swivelling around so that he can sip at more of his scotch. He already feels irritated with the way that things are going. “I confess myself a little surprised at you checking up on what I said to you earlier in light of my other words.”

 

Sally takes a step forwards. Greg looks at her. “You can be sure that finding out who did this to F/N is an utmost priority for us Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Is it now?” Mycroft studies her coolly for a moment, before he averts his eyes to look at Greg. “Perhaps I could have a word with you in private Detective Inspector?”

 

“Oh no,” Sally says, taking another step forwards, so that she’s right in front of Mycroft. “I want to hear this. You see I already have a theory on what happened last night.”

 

“Donovan,” Greg barks warningly. 

 

Mycroft raises a hand. “Oh no Detective Inspector, please let her continue. I find that I am quite as keen to hear Detective Sergeant Donovan’s words as she is to hear mine.” He peers down at Sally. “Go on then,” he murmurs with a cautious threat, “What is your theory?”

 

Sally glares up at him. “I believe,” she says, drawing herself up, “That you made a move on F/N last night”-

 

“Am I reduced to a mere chess piece now?” Mycroft interrupts. 

 

“Yes. See, that’s how you minimize the rest of us; both your brother and you do it. Treat the world like pawns…” Sally trails off scornfully, before she goes on, “I believe that F/N rejected you. By that point you’d already argued and she’d worked out the coldness in your heart. Perhaps you tried to kiss her, but she wanted nothing more to do with you. I don’t know how you got her to stay in this house, perhaps you simply convinced her that it was too late to leave for her own safety, but I believe that once you’d both gone to your separate rooms you spent the rest of the night fuming. This morning you awoke with a plan fully formed in your head. You’d make her pay for what she’d done to you and try to ensure that she could never tell anyone about what had happened. I believe that you organized the hit and run, and, wanting to both make sure that the job was done and to try and put doubts in everyone’s head of your involvement, you followed her. Unfortunately for you she did not die. But fortunately for you her mind seems to have been damaged just enough to spare your humiliation. How you must have thought that all your Christmases had come at once when that was revealed.” 

 

“That’s a very dangerous accusation for you to be making Detective Sergeant,” Mycroft responds with a firm evenness. 

 

“I know,” Sally says, not backing down. 

 

“Donovan out now,” Greg barks, jerking his thumb towards the hallway. 

 

Sally stares at Mycroft with hatred in her eyes, before she swivels on her heel and walks off. 

 

“We can do the statement now,” Greg breathes. 

 

Mycroft nods. 

 

*

 

After the statement is done and finally the Detective Inspector and his loathsome officer are out of his hair Mycroft only has a chance to sip at a little more of his scotch and thank the Lord that, that is over, before there comes the insistent sound of the doorbell once more. He lets out a sigh. He really hopes that it’s Sherlock this time. 

 

“Yes, all right,” he utters irritably on his way back down the narrow hallway. 

 

He barely opens it a fraction, before it’s pushed wider open from the other side. In the next moment Sherlock barges in. Mycroft lets out a sound of discontent, before he follows his brother to the kitchen.

 

“I waited until Lestrade had gone,” Sherlock says, turning around to face him. 

 

Mycroft nods to the scotch and Sherlock goes to find a bottle so that he can fill the decanter up again and pour himself a glass. Mycroft, with his back turned as he goes to where his laptop is set up ready on the dining table, misses the way that Sherlock’s brow comes to crease with concern as he notices the interlinked masks, _and_ misses the worried look that his brother then sends him. 

 

“Have you looked at it?” Sherlock asks, coming across to join him and bringing Mycroft’s glass of scotch over as well as his own. 

 

Mycroft takes it from him in gratitude and sips at it for a moment, before he settles it down on the table close to the laptop. “Yes,” he murmurs softly, and again Sherlock looks at his brother in concern. There’s something unusual about Mycroft’s face, and it takes Sherlock a moment to work out that his brother is fighting hard to keep his emotions down and his expression in check. As soon as Sherlock figures out such a thing it only takes him about half-a-second more to realize that he doesn’t like it. Mycroft ignores his brother’s gaze and taps at the laptop’s keypad. A screen flicks up in front of them with a still CCTV image. Mycroft sits down and Sherlock leans over him, one of his hands resting on the table as he looks at the screen intently. “This is it,” Mycroft murmurs. Sherlock nods. Mycroft swallows and presses play. Something closes down on his face as he does so, like a shop being shut at night. 

 

Sherlock watches as your figure walks down the pavement in an uncaring manner, your hand holding your phone to your ear. He notices Mycroft’s figure, just at the edge of the screen and something about it troubles him. He doesn’t have long to dwell on the way his brother’s looking at you with an intent concern about his face however, for a moment later the black car springs into view. He watches as you look over your shoulder. Watches as the fear and panic grow in your eyes. Watches too as his brother freezes. The car has barely hit you when present Mycroft clears his throat and pauses it. He holds two of the keys down simultaneously. “From another angle,” he murmurs as the screen switches and another piece of CCTV footage then begins to play. This time it shows everything head on, and again Sherlock watches as you walk down the street. This time he can see your face, and he watches your mouth move as you talk to Sally. Watches as his brother follows you with a worried expression upon his face. He watches the car slide into view. Mycroft presses another key repeatedly, zooming in on the driver. Once the screen is taken up by the windscreen of the car and the grainy black and white image of the driver inside Mycroft presses a key that’s off to the side. The laptop buzzes and makes some high-pitched whirring noises. Then a rectangular box that has a single line passing through it top to bottom appears on the right of the initial image. Again the laptop makes lots of beeps and processing sounds, before finally a clearer picture of the driver emerges in the box. His name is underneath. 

 

“Darren Smith,” Sherlock reads. 

 

Mycroft nods, and his face takes on a thoughtful air as he leans back. “One minor offence for possession of a Class A substance when he was younger, and nothing since. Currently residing in London he seems to have cleaned himself up by becoming a vicar.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “So, Moriarty”-

 

“Oh no, I still think it likely that Moriarty’s behind this. It wouldn't be the first time he’s used other people to achieve his aims after all,” Mycroft says airily. 

 

“In that case do you think that he’s aware of the fact that we know he’s back?” Sherlock questions. Mycroft looks at him. “As far as they’re aware they might think it possible that F/N never got around to telling you.”

 

“Oh no,” Mycroft hums, “I should think that they’re all quite aware. No doubt there’s been someone watching this house all day, making a note of the comings and goings. They’re probably still out there watching us now.”

 

A normal person would have shivered. Sherlock doesn’t. Instead he merely swallows. “As to where this will lead”-

 

“As to where it will all lead, we can only speculate.” Mycroft pauses, “No, forgive me,” he says when a sudden thought enters his tired head, “I think it is quite clear where it will lead. To my downfall and then to my death. Rather it is the process from A to B that I am getting at.”

 

They speculate, running through heaps of possible scenarios and actions that can be taken as a result. Mycroft sits on one side of the table, Sherlock on the other, whilst the laptop hums beside them companionably. Files of papers with scrawled handwritten notes from both men stretch across the table. They pore through them and talk until everywhere outside of their little bubble of light has grown dark and their heads ache. Mycroft drinks the last of his scotch, places the empty glass down on the table wearily and huffs out a breath. His hand goes up to his hair and his head slides down his arm to the elbow, before he arches his head up again. 

 

“It hurts doesn’t it?” Sherlock asks, his eyes lifting up from the piece of paper that he’s been poring over so that they can fix onto his brother. Mycroft looks at him studiously; both his personality and the way that he’s over-protective of his brother not letting the truth of his words come out. “You've been insisting on texting me all day, despite the fact that you usually prefer to call”-

 

“I was trying to be discreet,” Mycroft says, a ripple of both pain and irritation rolling across his face. 

 

Sherlock tilts his head. “Perhaps,” he offers, “Or perhaps you merely did not want to risk the fact that your voice might be unsteady if you were to phone.”

 

“Has my voice been unsteady at any time tonight?” Mycroft asks with a bite of impatience. 

 

“No,” Sherlock says with a greater deal of patience than his brother, “But I’m not blind. I saw the way that you were looking at F/N as you followed after her in the CCTV. I saw the way too that you were quick to not let it play any further as soon as the car hit her.” Mycroft frowns and looks down. One of his hands goes to curl around his glass, even though it is empty. “I see the way that you are gripping that glass so hard now and the way that those masks are interlinked”-

 

“What does it even matter?” Mycroft asks, his voice slightly raised as he looks back at his brother. “You know as well as I do that emotion does not solve anything. It does not help us to think straight and nor will it help us make any progress here.” 

 

“It _matters,”_ Sherlock says delicately, “Because you sleeping with F/N last night changes everything”-

 

“I should never have”- Mycroft huffs out. 

 

“No,” Sherlock purses his lips, “But now that you have, and now that it is done,” he sighs, “We need to think about this from more than just the perspective we've looked at it before and stop pretending that it does not change things. Moriarty has decided that F/N’s your John,” Sherlock says with only a hint of embarrassment about him. Mycroft frowns. “So we need to counter-act that and work out what his next move might be.” 

 

“That’s a maybe Sherlock,” Mycroft says, “But with F/N going to Wales and my security keeping an eye on both the hospital and her room in the meantime, I hardly think that he’ll strike so imminently again. Especially now that he knows we are bound to have protected her. His focus will surely move on from her and turn to me.” 

 

Sherlock doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead Mycroft and he just discuss things a little more, before he leaves. 

 

Mycroft thinks long and hard about what has been said as he shuts the laptop down and tidies up, before he makes his way up to bed. Oddly enough it is not his brother’s words about Moriarty that haunt his mind the most, but rather what Sherlock had commented about it hurting. Yes, he concludes, as he pulls the covers back and slips into bed-the same bed that only last night he’d shared with you-it hurts. 

 

*

 

You dream of the man with auburn hair when you finally drop off to sleep that night. “Trust me,” he says, peering down at you as you lay in bed, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. You wake up confused and agitated. Tears soon come for all the things that you do not understand. 

 

*

 

Greg wakes up to some confusion of his own when he jolts awake late to the sound of his mobile phone ringing upon his bedside table. 

 

“Hello?” he says hazily once he’s picked up. 

 

“Sir, we could really do with you down at the station as soon as possible,” Sally’s voice comes. 

 

Greg lets out a bleary groan, sits up properly and wipes the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand. “Wha-What is it Donovan?” he says in between a yawn.

 

“It’s the CCTV footage Sir. Every single tape we picked up is blank. It’s as if someone’s wiped the footage. Even the ones from the home owners don’t have anything on them.”

 

Greg lets out a breath as that fact slowly makes its way through his mind. “I’ll be there shortly Donovan,” he finally assures her. 

 

He does not however make his way straight down to the police station. Instead he goes to the office of one Mr. Mycroft Holmes. 

 

“I'm afraid that Mr. Holmes will be busy all morning,” Anthea tells him once he’s gained access to the reception point. 

 

Greg opens his mouth, about to protest. But before he can the phone that sits next to Anthea on her desk rings. She picks it up coolly. 

 

He listens to her speak for just a moment, before she puts the phone down again. 

 

“You can go in,” she says without looking up at him. 

 

Greg hesitates, before his brow clears and he turns towards the office. 

 

“Ah, Detective Inspector. I was in half-a-mind that I might be seeing you today,” Mycroft says, doing a very Anthea like thing and not looking up from his paperwork as Greg enters. 

 

“Were you? Is there any particular reason for that?” Greg asks, in no mood to be pleasant. 

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft hums. 

 

“I’d appreciate it if you could look at me when I'm speaking to you,” Greg says, coming to stand by the hard and uncomfortable looking chair that’s in front of Mycroft’s desk.

 

Mycroft stiffens. A beat passes, before he reluctantly places his fountain pen down and lifts his head up. “I'm not accustomed to being told what to do in my own office Detective Inspector”-

 

“I'm not accustomed to having my cases sabotaged by the British Government,” Greg retorts. Mycroft looks towards the shut door anxiously. Greg clears his throat and steps forwards until he’s right up against the desk. Mycroft eyes him with a terse sort of curiosity about his face. “Listen Mycroft, I'm giving you this chance now to tell me what you know about what happened to F/N. Whatever you know you have to tell me, because I don’t care who you are or what influence you have, you have absolutely no right to impede any case of mine. If you do so again then I'm afraid that I’ll have no choice but to charge you with obstruction.”

 

Mycroft rises to his feet with an even look upon his face. For a moment he and the Detective Inspector just eye one another. The phone rings. Mycroft lifts the receiver up with one hand; his blue eyes steady on the police officer the whole time, before he carefully lowers the phone back down a moment later, silencing its sound. 

 

“I made it quite clear to you yesterday Detective Inspector,” Mycroft begins, “Or at least I _hoped_ that I did, that you weren’t to take the case forward. You went ahead and did so anyway. I was merely trying to ensure that the case would be brought shortly to an end.”

 

Greg shakes his head. He places the tips of his fingers down upon the desk and leans forwards. “No, I'm not accepting that. You know as well as anyone that it’s prudent to at least do a little digging in a case like this, before it’s closed. For the family’s sake if for nothing else. No,” he says, shaking his head again, this time more slowly. “Something’s rattled you about this hasn’t it? I mean more than just F/N getting mown down by a car.” Mycroft’s face tightens. “It’s no use denying it. Whatever happened that night it’s plain to me now that you’ve taken an interest in her as much as anyone else has.”

 

“There I was thinking that you might be more prone to believing Sally Donovan’s versions of events,” Mycroft breathes, leaning back a little. 

 

“I like to keep an open mind,” Greg responds evenly. “I know from past experience, in any case, and as you well know, that Sally’s always been a little sceptical when it comes to the Holmes’s.” Mycroft lets out a breath. “That being said though I have to agree that her version’s looking a lot more likely after what you’ve done with the CCTV.”

 

“Then you have to stop such thought,” Mycroft says, looking down and toying a little with the paperweight that’s on his desk. “You have to get your officer to believe otherwise too.”

 

“That would be a lot easier to do if I knew what you’re hiding,” Greg says, sending a maddening look Mycroft’s way. Mycroft frowns. “We’re on the same side,” Greg insists in a gentler tone. “I want to help F/N, and unless you inform me properly of what’s going on here then I'm going to find that difficult.”

 

Mycroft frowns and breathes. He looks to the door. “This is to go no further, you understand?” he asks with an intense fervour as he looks back to Greg. “None of your officers, not even Detective Sergeant Donovan can know.” Greg hesitates, before he nods his head. “I mean it,” Mycroft warns, staring at him in a concentrated fashion. “If I find out that this has gone any further then I can assure you that you won’t have a job.” Greg’s eyes narrow a fraction, but then he swallows and nods. He might not like Mycroft’s tactics, but it’s important that he knows what’s going on here. “You see aside from myself only Sherlock and F/N know,” Mycroft goes on, and a regretful look crosses his face as he remembers, “Only Sherlock now.” As he looks down Greg’s never seen him look more melancholy. “Does she remember you?” Mycroft asks in that same soft tone as the one he’d used earlier as he looks back up at the police officer. 

 

Greg shakes his head sadly, before he replies properly, “I don’t know about now, but yesterday she seemed to be under the impression that it was February 2010 and that she hadn’t even moved to London. The only people she seems to remember are her family and Sally.” Mycroft lets out a little breath and Greg suddenly becomes aware that Mycroft’s leaning forwards more than he had been and that he’s gripping onto the edge of the desk tightly with his fingers. _“Mycroft?”_

 

Mycroft lets out another breath and closes his eyes, before he opens them again and pushes himself back, so that he’s not holding onto the desk any more. “This is my fault. All of it. You understand?” he asks, looking back at the Detective Inspector. “I am just as culpable for F/N’s state as the person who hit her in that car. I should have handled things differently, not got so caught up in”- he breaks off and closes his eyes, a pained expression upon his face. 

 

Greg feels like he’s barely breathing, and he waits until Mycroft opens his eyes, before he asks, “Do you know who the driver is?”

 

Mycroft lets out a heavy sigh. _“Yes,”_ he says, “But I will not tell you, that is a point that I'm adamant about. All you need to know is that he was acting underneath the orders of Moriarty.” Greg’s eyes widen, before his mouth drops open. “Yes,” Mycroft breathes, his hand curling around the paperweight. “Moriarty has returned Detective Inspector, and this time I am of the belief that he is out to eliminate me.”

 

“H-How?” Greg wonders, before he swallows and shuffles back. Mycroft shakes his head. “This changes things,” Greg says as he sinks down into the chair. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft replies softly, sitting back down in his own chair. 

 

For a moment Greg just bows his head. His hands come to clasp together upon his lap as his mind fills up with thought. “You think that F/N was targeted because”-

 

“Because of the foolish mistake I made the other night, yes,” Mycroft interrupts him shortly. Greg just stares at him. Mycroft lets out a little breath. “Do you see now why I wanted this case to go no further?” Greg hesitates, before he nods. “Do you see now why I told F/N to make out that we’d argued? It was important that it appeared to as many people as possible that we weren’t together”-

 

“You were trying to protect her,” Greg realizes hollowly. 

 

Mycroft nods. “You will drop the case?” 

 

Greg thinks about it for a moment. His hands swipe together. “Without any leads it won’t have anywhere to go anyway.” Mycroft looks at him insistently. _“Yes,”_ Greg says with a bow of his head. Mycroft looks relieved. “But what are you going to do?” Greg asks, sitting up more urgently, “Even if the case is dropped how can you guarantee that F/N won’t be hurt again? Now that he knows how much she means to you?”

 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, “I think F/N’s parents have already taken care of that. By taking her to Wales she will be out of sight, happier and safe.” His words are tinged with bitterness. 

 

Greg frowns. “Do you really suppose that she’ll be happy?” 

 

“Why wouldn't she be?” Mycroft asks, looking down and shifting some of the paperwork that’s on his desk. “Her life will be less complicated”-

 

“She’s lost memories of four years of her life. I hardly think”- Greg interrupts him incredulously. 

 

“Less complicated to a point then,” Mycroft corrects, still looking down. 

 

“Tell me one thing,” Greg says, standing up. Mycroft looks at him and inclines his head the briefest of fractions. “You know who this driver is. Will you be acting against him?” 

 

Mycroft swallows and looks down again. “In due course, if I find myself having to, then yes, I shall be.”

 

Greg twists this way and that. “I know that you don’t want me involved, and you have every right to be cautious about how to proceed, but not doing anything at all doesn’t sit well with me either.”

 

“I'm afraid that is the only option that you have Detective Inspector if you wish no more harm to come to F/N,” Mycroft murmurs, looking steadily at Greg out of glittering eyes. 

 

Greg looks at him desperately, thinking hard. “You said that Moriarty will be after you?” Mycroft gives one curt nod. _“So”-_ Greg’s hand gives a twitch-“If F/N’s in Wales, and if anything happens to you, then you might never see each other again.”

 

Mycroft looks down. His breathing is steady. “If that’s all then I would appreciate it if you left now Detective Inspector. I have much work ahead of me.”

 

Greg’s breath hitches in his chest. “I could always get someone to”-

 

“I already have far better protection than anyone the police could ever provide Detective Inspector,” Mycroft interrupts, looking up at Greg again. “Good day to you,” is what he says, before he looks down at his paperwork again. 

 

Greg leaves a moment later, his heart feeling heavy from all that he’s heard. 

 

*

 

“What? You want to drop the case?” Sally exclaims angrily. 

 

Greg sighs, gets up and goes across to close his office door. Sally watches him like a hawk. He strides back, coming to a stop behind his desk. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, turning back to her. “We've got no CCTV, and the house to house only turned up the fact that the vehicle was black, which Mycroft had already confirmed in his statement anyway. Unless F/N’s memory comes back or something magical happens with the forensics then what am I supposed to do? Go through every black vehicle?”-

 

Sally huffs out a breath. “No, you just need to think about it,” she comments. Greg looks at her questioningly. She puts her hands on her hips and looks at him maddeningly. “Who do we know that always swans around in black cars? _Oh”-_ she tilts her head-“That’s right, the one and only Mycroft Holmes. _What_ a coincidence!”

 

“Listen, right now I'm not convinced by either of you. He’s been a little odd about everything that’s true, but that doesn’t make him the mastermind behind all this”-Sally opens her mouth-“She was in his clothes when she got hit. Did you know that?” Sally shuts her mouth. She frowns, looking troubled. “Listen, if you want to go down to the hospital and try and get something out of F/N then please do. For all I know you might succeed since you’re one of the few people that she remembers. But like I say if that doesn’t work”-

 

“I'm on it,” Sally says, giving him a firm look, before she turns around and strides out. 

 

*

 

You couldn't be any more relieved when a familiar curly-haired woman walks into your hospital room. _“Sally,”_ you breathe, and the constant headache you have seems to dissipate a little. 

 

“F/N,” Sally smiles in spite of how troubled she’s feeling. She wanders around your bed to sit in the chair. “You gave me quite the scare.”

 

You give her half-a-smile. “You’re the first friendly face I’ve seen since being here.”

 

“The nurses not treating you well then?” Sally asks, patting at your hand. 

 

“Oh no, they’re fine. They think I might be able to come out tomorrow actually…I just meant, aside from what with my family and all”-you shift your position, eye her awkwardly and once more the flames in your head seem to burn brighter than ever-“Well, I’ve kind of been left feeling like everyone else knows me a lot more than I know them.” You pause. “You _are_ still a Detective Sergeant aren't you?” 

 

“Yes I am,” Sally nods with a bit of a smile. You feel relieved, but her hand goes completely still on yours as her face turns more thoughtful. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you a little about the problems you’ve been having.” You pull a face and turn your head away. Sally rubs at your hand. “I'm here as a friend, but I have to confess that I'm here a little as a police officer too. You see, the thing is F/N,” she goes on, “We’re kind of relying on you. All right forensics haven’t come back yet. But everything else has already hit a dead end. We’ll have to close the case if you”-

 

“Then close it!” you snap. The flames in your head climb higher still, as you tug your hand away, before you shove it over your mouth. Sally looks at you in alarm. You let out a choked sort of gasp and tears suddenly stream down your face. Sally hugs you. “Sorry, I-I just mean, that at the end of the day, catching whoever did this, especially when it was just an accident and they’re probably just really scared, won’t bring my memory back will it?”

 

Sally hesitates. For a moment she wonders whether or not she should tell you that it wasn't an accident. In the end she decides not to. “Probably not,” she relents. “But F/N,” she leans forwards, grasping at your hand, “Are you really sure that you don’t remember anything about it?” Your lips part. “I phoned you right before it happened. Do you remember?” You shake your head. Sally swallows. She rubs at your hand. “You told me that you argued with Mycroft after you went back to his following the ball we went to”-

 

“I don’t know anyone called Mycroft,” you interrupt, pulling your hand away. 

 

“He visited yesterday,” she reminds you. You’re about to protest and tell Sally that no one of that name has visited you when you remember the strange man who’d been by your bedside when you’d woken up yesterday. You’d never got his first name. “He’s got auburn hair,” Sally prompts, “He’s quite tall and… _frowny?”_

 

You can’t help but giggle a little at that. It’s the first time since the accident that you’ve done so and the sudden sound of it comes as a shock to you. You cover up your mouth with one hand. Sally smiles. “I remember him,” you breathe, “He was here when I woke up yesterday.”

 

_“Oh?”_ Sally questions, “What did you think of him?” 

 

You bite at your lip and shrug a little. You’re not quite sure what she expects you to say. “Um, I dunno…” you trail off feeling rather unhelpful. 

 

Sally swallows and looks down for a moment. “You didn't, _notice_ anything about him?” 

 

Your brow furrows. “I’d only just woken up,” you protest when Sally looks at you a little maddeningly. 

 

Sally pats at your hand and leans a little closer. _“So_ …you didn't feel attracted to him at all?” 

 

You blanch for a moment. “Sally! What kind of question is that? Like I said I’d only just woke up. I was kind of more concerned with other matters…” you trail off as the man’s face comes back to you. You remember that auburn hair, those blue eyes and the way he’d looked at you so desperately. He’d seemed so keen that you remembered him. You feel your face warming up a little. He’d been so smartly dressed too. “Okay,” you relent, “I guess he _was_ kind of nice looking, but what does that have to do with anything?” Sally chews on her lip for a moment. _“Sally?”_

 

“It matters F/N because he was the last person you were with, before your accident.” You open your mouth, still not getting it. “Okay,” she holds up a hand. “Let’s run through what we know. You went to the ball with Greg”-

 

“The Detective Inspector?” you interrupt, sounding surprised.

 

Sally nods, smiling a bit again. “Yes, my boss,” she grins. You look astonished by this development that seems to have come from a strange past life. “Don’t look so flabbergasted. You had all the men after you”-

 

_“Me?”_ you ask. 

 

Sally nods. “Anderson”-you look baffled-“He used to be on forensics,” she adds, “The freak… he’s just a freak”-you giggle nervously-“My boss…but you were only ever interested in Mycroft.”

 

_“Really?”_ you question, finding that hard to believe. For okay sure Mycroft’s nice looking, but quite frankly personality wise he’d come across as a bit pushy to you yesterday. Had you really been that shallow just to be interested in his looks? Greg for one had seemed a lot calmer and nicer. Talking about Greg, “Why did I go with Greg if I didn't like him in that way?”

 

Sally winces a little. “I believe that you were trying to be nice.” You pull a face. “Yes,” she laughs, “That’s pretty much how I reacted when you told me. Anyway,” she breathes, “At the ball I made you promise that you’d tell them that you didn't like any of them in that way or I’d do it for you.” You grin. That you _can_ believe. “So you did. The next thing I knew you were dancing with a stranger who turned out to be Mycroft, before you went back to his.” 

 

Again you pull a face. “I really can’t imagine going back to his.”

 

“Well, anyway, the thing is, what happened after that is all a bit hazy.”

 

You frown. You don’t much like the sound of that. “Can’t you just ask him?” you say, turning away from her a little irritably. Why does everyone have to keep pushing you? How are you supposed to know all the answers here? Don’t they know that your memory’s gone all strange? 

 

Sally’s face tightens, “There’s sort of two conflicting versions. One being what he told us, and the other what you told me on the phone.”

 

Your face darkens. You don’t like the sound of what you’re hearing. “What’s his version?” you ask. 

 

Sally’s hand goes to yours and tightens there. You feel suddenly afraid and wish that you hadn’t asked. In fact you’re just about to open your mouth and tell her not to answer when she reveals in a hushed tone, “He said that you slept together.”

 

_“What?”_ you breathe in a small tone, before you pull your hand back and swing away from her a little, so that your body is turned more towards the door. Sally gives you a moment. You begin to shake your head when even after a minute or two your mind still feels like it’s reeling from shock. “No,” you murmur. “No,” you repeat, your voice stronger this time. “I can’t have-I wouldn't have, from what you said we weren’t even… _were_ we?”- Sally shakes her head. “So _why?”-_ you break off, beginning to think that you must have been that shallow and, if this is true, only slept with Mycroft because you’d deemed him good looking. 

 

“I don’t know F/N,” Sally says, getting you out of your both curious and anxious thought. “I don’t know why he’d say that if it wasn't true,” she informs you, “Up until now I’ve had the impression that he usually likes to keep himself out of things…but can you see why it’s important that you try to remember?”

 

“I-I can’t remember, I'm sorry,” you tell her, shaking your head. 

 

Sally reaches for your hand again; “We need to get whoever did this to you F/N. You know that right? There’s another thing. Apparently when you got hit you weren’t wearing your own clothes, you were wearing Mycroft’s.”

 

“I”- you begin, feeling even more confused. 

 

“Listen to me. You've lost four year’s of your life. Mycroft’s not helping, so if you can remember anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem”-

 

“I want you to go,” you interrupt, your voice rising shakily above hers. 

 

“I don’t want whoever did this to get away with it”-

 

“It was an accident. I'm sure that whoever did this was just scared. That’s why they drove away. They panicked. I don’t care about anyone getting prosecuted. I just want you to go now, _please,”_ you say, going back to what you’d felt like you’d already established in your head, before Sally had come. You try and push all these frightening new developments away. Sally doesn’t move. “I-I want to be alone,” you tell her. 

 

She nods. Finally she leaves. 

 

As soon as she does so a strangled sort of gasp leaves your mouth and tears spill down your cheeks. Your headache burns more fiercely than ever. You feel like you’re dangling from a cliff and struggling to keep your footing. Every time you’ve just about got to grips with a piece of information new ones all come along, threatening to make you fall again. You sob and gasp. You just feel like you want to get to somewhere quiet away from all of this. Get away from the city even though the only bit you can recall of it is the hospital. Get away from all the people who keep pushing you to remember. Don’t they get that you can’t remember what they want you to right now? That your mind isn’t just a light that you can flick on and off. Your fisted hand comes against the bed sheet angrily. How you wish that you could understand everything and make sense of it all. Make sense of how you’d come to be in a part of London that you feel so separate from. Had you really spent the night at that man’s house? _Mycroft._ You let out another choked gasp. Who is he to you? Had you really slept with him? You try and stem the flow of your tears. The fact that you’d been wearing his clothes when you got hit makes it look all the more likely, but you just can’t imagine it. Especially when it sounds as if it was more like a one-night stand than anything meaningful. How can you reconcile that person with the one you are now? Would you really have done something so careless just because you had a crush on him? Just because you thought that he was good looking? None of this makes any sense to you. Had you been drunk? Is that how you’d come to do something so reckless and which seems so out of character for you? But then again if you had been wasted wouldn't Sally have questioned you about that too? Or at least have reminded you about being such a thing? You feel suddenly bitter. Sally’s supposed to be your friend. She should be laying off you. Since when did her doing her job become more important to her than your friendship anyway? You swallow. You know that’s a little unfair. You try and push everything away, but question after question whirls about in your mind. You even attempt to stagger out of the room and down the corridor because of how restless and confused you feel. A nurse guides you back to your room and offers you something to get you off to sleep, which you accept. Finally oblivion hits you. 

 

That morning the nurse rouses you earlier than you’d like and takes you through some quick tests, before she decides that you’re fit enough to be discharged.

 

Things move quickly after that, and you suddenly find that your room is full of people. Your parents and Alice fuss around you, making your headache worse in spite of themselves, whilst they gather up the small amount of things-mainly clothes that had been brought in for you from 221C by Alice-that have accumulated in your room. The Detective Inspector and Sally are also there, both no doubt hoping that you’ll be able to remember something, before you leave. You sit on the edge of the bed in jeans and a f/c top, neither of which that you remember buying, whilst you keep your head down. You really don’t want to be questioned today. You don’t want anything else that scares you to come up. You just want to make a quiet departure to Wales and try and move on from all this. 

 

Greg though seems to have other ideas. He shifts until you sense that he’s right in front of you, before he says in a fake, cheery tone, “So F/N, I hope that you’ll start to feel more like yourself in Wales”-what does that even feel like you wonder? -“But, as you can appreciate, it will be a little trickier for us to be in touch with you. If you can remember anything”-

 

“I don’t,” you interrupt, whilst your hands grip onto the edge of the bed. Alice sends you a concerned look. 

 

“No,” Greg murmurs regrettably, “But if you should”- he breaks off, and you glance up at him as he holds out a card to you. 

 

You take it from him slowly and see that his title, name and work phone number are all on it. You slip it into the pocket of your jeans. 

 

“Your phone was recovered from the scene F/N,” Sally tells you. Your eyes go to her. As they do so everything that she’d told you yesterday comes back to you and you feel almost sick. “But we’d rather hold onto it for the time being. Just in case it should help us with anything. We’ll give it back to you in due course.” You nod, feeling a mess inside. 

 

Over your head your parents exchange an anxious glance with one another. 

 

“Come on then,” your mother says, jostling at your side. You get to your feet automatically at the same time that she looks across at Greg. “If that will be all then Detective?” 

 

Greg nods. 

 

“Wait. Could you take me to where I used to live?” you ask, before you can help yourself. You hadn’t intended to ask such a thing, but as soon as you do so you know that it’s right. You just have to see where you used to live, have to see all of your stuff and reassure yourself that you’re not a completely different person from the one you feel inside right now.

 

“F/N I'm not sure if”- your mother begins at once, before Greg can say anything. 

 

“I just want to go, all my stuff’s there”-

 

“We can collect your things for you or get you new ones when you get home,” your father says. 

 

You shake your head. “I just want to see it.”

 

Again your parents exchange a glance. But it’s your sister who seems to decide for them when she says, “It doesn’t have to be for very long does it? In any case it can’t do any harm.” You look at her gratefully.

 

Your father lets out a soft sigh. Your mother nods. You feel relieved. 

 

“I’d be happy to take you,” Greg says, “You can ride in the back of the police car. Don’t worry it’s unmarked,” he adds to your mother. She offers him a tight smile. 

 

Undeterred by your mother’s sense of humour failure on his way out of hospital Greg sends a text to Mycroft: **Taking F/N to 221C. If you want to see her, before she leaves then I suggest that you make yourself present.**

 

You spend the entire journey peering out of the window. You take in every building and vision and wonder if any of them had ever held a particular significance to you. How often had you seen such sights? On a daily basis or less? Had they ever grown stale? Normal to you? Had you ever grown weary of the heaving thrum of people and traffic as you find yourself experiencing currently? For the bustle of it all makes you want to recoil, so it’s almost a relief when the car turns down Baker Street and comes to a stop outside a polished, black door that’s marked 221B. A hazy flash of your hand pulling down the brass knocker flickers in your mind. It’s gone, before you can properly claim it. 

 

_“F/N?”_ You hear Sally’s voice saying, and you suddenly realize that you’ve closed your eyes. 

 

“ ‘M fine,” you mumble as you open them, before you open the car door and swing out. You’re beginning to regret this already. 

 

Sally and Greg exchange a glance, before they follow you. They escort you to the door, before Greg draws the knocker down. 

 

Your hands start to grow clammy and your heart thrums in anticipation. Perhaps this has been a mistake. What will you discover behind this black door?

 

It opens to reveal a kindly looking old woman and part of a narrow hallway. You swallow. Whatever you’d been expecting it hadn’t been that. 

 

“Oh F/N,” she coos, hugging you quickly, before she places her hands delicately upon your arms. You offer her half-a-smile, but you’re wary about her all the same. “Oh dear, I'm so glad that you’ve come to see us before you go. Sherlock, John and Mary are just upstairs, talking about something or another. They’ll be so glad to see you.”

 

You look towards both Greg and Sally for support. “Sherlock’s Mycroft’s brother, John used to live here, Mary’s John’s wife,” Greg informs you in an undertone, before he offers Mrs. Hudson a strained smile. 

 

“Oh dear, you must forgive me. I hadn’t quite realized how bad”- she breaks off. “I'm Mrs. Hudson,” she swipes your hand up in hers, “I'm the landlady here. I must say that out of all the tenants I’ve ever had you were always one of my favourites”-

 

“I hope that I'm one of your favourites too,” an amused sounding baritone voice comes. A moment later a gangly, skinny man with curly dark hair comes into view. You let out a breath as his startling multi-coloured eyes come to fix upon you. “F/N, it’s nice to have you back with us, even if it’s just for a little while.”

 

“That’s Sherlock,” Greg informs you.

 

Your eyes widen in surprise. You’d rather assumed that the man was John. Sherlock looks so different from Mycroft, and you suddenly find that such a thing makes you feel relieved. If they’d been identical twins or something then you would have probably ended up feeling so confused that you would have just run out of there. 

 

Sherlock takes on a knowing look. “I inherited all the good looks, whilst Mycroft only inherited Mummy’s ability to be annoying I'm afraid.” You feel a little awkward at that, but smile nonetheless. 

 

“He’s wrong. He’s just as annoying,” another voice comes. Your eyes shift to see that a shorter man’s descending the stairs, followed by a pregnant woman who you assume must be Mary. 

 

“Dr. John Watson,” the man says once he comes to the bottom. He shakes your hand. 

 

“Mary,” Mary breathes into your ear as she hugs you, “If you want to talk at any time then Mrs. Hudson and I are always available.” 

 

“That’s true,” Mrs. Hudson acknowledges, “Your sister’s had a conversation with me about the rent, so you don’t need to go worrying yourself about that either.”

 

“Thank you,” you say, feeling relieved and oddly welcome. 

 

Your parents and Alice arrive just a moment later, and once all the introductions are done for a second time and it’s explained that you want to see your flat, you all shuffle further inside. 

 

“This was yours,” Mrs. Hudson says, opening a door that’s further down the hallway. 

 

“I have no idea why she keeps it locked,” Sherlock drawls from somewhere to your right. 

 

“It couldn't be because you were already harbouring desires to take it over as a little chemical factory for yourself?” John pipes up. 

 

You snort and it makes everybody else smile. Even your mother can only look a tiny bit disapproving.

 

Once the door is open Mrs. Hudson draws back to allow you to be the first one to step inside. 

 

You do so and look around curiously. For a moment all you can see are the large items. The circular table that’s almost in the centre and to the right of the small, kitchen area. The modest brown settee to the far right and the comfy looking f/c armchair, which faces a coffee table and a television set. A couple of other doors are there too, one at the back and one that’s close to you as you go in on the right. One of them must lead to the bathroom and the other to the bedroom. Your eyes begin to notice more, and you zone out of the babble of chatter that’s going on behind you and take in the sight of a laptop bag, which leans against the coffee table. A couple of books, one about story ideas and the other about scriptwriting lay on the table. Again another image flashes before your eyes. This time one of you sitting by the table, with the laptop in front of you and one of those books caught in between your hands as you search for something within its midst. 

 

“F/N? You all right?” John asks. His hand briefly goes to your arm. 

 

You nod and pull away, taking a couple of steps further inside. Your eyes go to a couple of knick-knacks and photos that rest on a shelf above the TV. You’re thinking about going across to look at them more closely when- 

 

“She doesn’t remember John,” Sherlock’s voice says evenly. You swivel to look at him. He’s eyeing you with a thoughtful expression that’s somewhere between being kind and not so. “You went through a lot of different part-time jobs when you came here, but you took a year off to try and become a scriptwriter. That was your true passion,” he informs you. 

 

You start a little. Your eyes widen and your mouth opens, but before you can say anything another voice says, “You were becoming quite a promising one too I’d wager.”

 

Your eyes go to the door and a little jerk of breath leaves your mouth when you see that the auburn haired man’s standing there, twirling an umbrella. His eyes fix on you cautiously for a moment. Your mouth shuts, opens again and closes. You don’t know what to say. Everything seems to be bubbling up just beneath your throat, but not coming up enough for you to get any words out. Let alone to push yourself to be brave enough to ask if it’s true that you’d slept together or at the very least ask why he’s saying such a thing. His tight lips put you off. Eventually, as everyone looks at you, you manage to release a dry cough. You feel embarrassed. 

 

Thankfully Sherlock’s on hand to comment, “Brother, how nice of you to pop by.”

 

Your head picks up on the fact that he’s being sarcastic, but you’re feeling too embarrassed by the fact that you’d completely fumbled any attempt at conversation with Mycroft and panicked by the fact that he’s blocking the door and your one escape route, to take it in properly. You look around desperately. “I-I think I’d like to go now,” you say, as soon as your gaze comes to land on that of your mother’s. 

 

Mycroft takes a step forwards. “Well, if you really must go so soon,” he says, “Then let me tell you at least how good it is to see you back on your feet again.”

 

Your eyes go to him quickly, wondering what exactly he means by that. Is there a double meaning to his words? You nod distractedly. _“Mother?”_ you prompt, your eyes going back to her. 

 

She nods and comes forwards to steer you out. You keep your head bowed the whole time, but you can feel Mycroft’s eyes on you as you brush past him with your mother’s arm around your shoulders. You feel an odd tingle as your clothes rub against each other’s and it makes you feel uneasy. You feel like you both want to run and stay all at the same time. You’re too scared right now though to do anything but flee. 

 

You hear Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Sally, Greg and John wishing you the best, and feel rather than see the dark gaze that Sherlock shoots Mycroft as they all follow you out. But as you slip into the back of your parents beaten up old maroon car and it begins to sweep you away to Wales, you miss the scornful look that Sherlock shoots his brother as soon as the car is out of sight. 

 

Miss Sherlock saying roughly, “She was doing well, before you showed up.”

 

Miss the slightly awkward look that John shoots between the two brothers, before he tells Mycroft, “Perhaps you should go?”

 

Miss the way that Mycroft’s jaw tightens for a mere moment, before he nods resignedly. “Yes, I have a lot of work to be doing in any case,” he says, before he walks off down the street where the black car he came in is parked. On his way he twirls his umbrella no more, feeling isolated from both his brother’s rejection and the fact that the only person he thought who might actually understand him is now on their way out of the country. 

 

You miss the way that when he’s sipping scotch in the Diogenes Club later that day it is quite clear to him that whatever hope he’d had about things developing between you it is now at an end. It’s clear too that his attempt to remain a presence in your life is not helping. You’d been scared of him earlier, apprehensive, and that fact alone had made his heart feel heavy. He feels sure that he’ll have to stay away, and when he goes to bed that night he is quite resigned to the fact that he shall never see you again.


	3. Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return to Wales, but it's not long before questions from your past creep up on you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks as ever for your support! :D  
> Hope you enjoy this one! :D

F/N?” a voice tugs you out of your slumber. 

 

“Mm?” you get out half-heartedly; recognizing the dull thump of a headache beneath your temple, before you scrunch your eyes more determinedly shut and try to pull the duvet further up. You don’t have much success though. It appears that the owner of the voice is sitting rather staunchly upon it. To compensate you roll around onto your other side. 

 

“C’mon little sister,” the voice says teasingly. “Rise and shine. It’s ten o’ clock.”

 

You smile a little when you finally place the voice as that of Alice’s. That still doesn’t make you want to get up though. You swat a hand at her. “No…” you mumble, before you ask, “Alice, why are you getting me up?” Suddenly a thought pops into your head. You swing suddenly upward and your eyes open. “Is it Thursday?” you question, wondering if you’re supposed to be heading to London to meet Sally. Pity flickers across Alice’s eyes. She opens her mouth, but you remember. “November 2014,” you nod. You’re back in Wales. The journey had tired you out and you’d gone straight to bed. You look around the small room. The bed is on the right from your position and against the wall. A bedside cabinet with an alarm clock sits beside it. A wooden wardrobe and chest of drawers lay opposite. A desk and chair are to the left with a small bookshelf above it. Alice must have opened the curtains and opened the window because you can feel a soft breeze fluttering through. You look back to her and she nods and reaches to squeeze at your hand. You pull it away, before she can touch you. “I better get dressed,” you say dismissively. After shooting you a concerned gaze Alice leaves you to it. 

 

You move out of the cramped upstairs with its three bedrooms and bathroom and make your way downstairs, pushing the door open so that you can step into the single room that takes up the downstairs. The modest kitchen area is to the left and back as you come downstairs, the dining table in the middle and the small sitting area with its maroon settee, armchair and TV at the bottom. The area on the right-where the stairs come out-is mostly clear, the front door being just opposite. Coat hangers and wellingtons line the side. Sturdy wooden beams rest at junctures above it all. 

 

After eating a half-hearted breakfast and fielding what feels like a million questions from your parents about how exactly you’re feeling, your sister and you step out into the small town. 

 

It’s all gathered around the main road that passes through it. Houses and local shops are built up on either side, kept back from the road by pavement and the occasional stonewall, whilst a bridge that is almost exactly halfway through the town passes over a trickling brook. 

 

The air is cold, and you feel glad that you’d worn your dark coat over your grey top and jeans. 

 

You haven’t been walking for long, and have only come across a couple of friendly looking townspeople who you’d nodded shyly to when Alice says, “I’ll be going back to Cardiff on Sunday, so I thought that I better show you around.”

 

Your heart sinks at her words. “I’ll be alone?” you ask, and you hate how suddenly needy your voice sounds. 

 

Alice looks at you worriedly. “No,” she says, clearly trying to be upbeat, “My whole aim is to make sure that you _won’t_ be alone. But don’t worry little sis, I won’t be going back until after church so”-

 

You stop dead. Alice takes another couple of steps, before she does the same and looks back at you. “Am I religious?” you ask her. You’d noticed that your mother wears a gold cross around her neck, but you’d never considered the prospect for yourself before. 

 

Alice eyes you for a moment, looking as if she doesn’t quite know what to tell you. “You used to be a little bit when you were younger,” she settles on. “Mum made us both go to Sunday school”-You wonder suddenly how you can remember the majority of your childhood, but not that-“You fell out of love with it when you got a bit older. Still, Mum thinks, and I think that it might be quite helpful too, if you were to perhaps try again. You might find that it’s of comfort to you.” You watch as she glances away and pulls a silver chain that has a cross attached to it out of her pocket. She offers it to you. You take it and appreciate how cool it feels to your touch, before you slip it on around your neck. Your sister smiles and links your arms together. “I'm going to introduce you to the vicar today,” she says. “I think you might like him. He’s young, not like the old, crotchety ones who lecture you and bore you to tears.” An odd feeling that you can’t decipher makes its way through your stomach. You get the feeling that something about what your sister had just said is significant. That it _matters._ You frown. You wish you knew _why_ it matters. But you soon get distracted from the thought when Alice starts to give you a brief history of the townspeople, mainly comprising of pieces of gossip that she’s heard over the years. 

 

The church is right at the end, almost off on its own little island to the right. Alice leads you up the chipped, curving steps along the path that winds through the cemetery, before she takes you through its wooden doors. The air inside is light and cool. The area is spacious. A patterned floor makes way for pews on either side. Stained glass windows let in the sun’s faint rays all around you, whilst dead ahead of you lays an alter. It’s silent and beautiful. You feel an odd sort of calm that you’ve not felt since you’d left London descend upon you. 

 

“Hello there,” comes a voice in a soft tone like the one you’d use not to scare off a frightened, wild animal. You look to see that a man around your age is coming out of a room that’s to the back and left of the altar. As usual these days you feel a little wary about anyone new, but you take him in nonetheless. You see that although his dark tightly curled hair seems to be thinning prematurely and his pale skin looks rather worn, his hazel eyes look benevolent all the same. An old soul in a young body. 

 

“Hi Darren,” Alice says, grabbing at your arm a little and pulling you forward, so that you’re level with her. “This is my sister F/N.”

 

Darren comes forwards, and as he does so you notice that his gait is a little clumsy. You’re not sure what to make of it.

 

“Hi F/N,” Darren says, shaking your hand, “What brings you here today?”

 

You open your mouth, but Alice decides to speak for you when she says, “F/N used to live in London Darren as you probably know”- she flicks at her hair-“But after she was involved in a car accident it was decided that it’s best if she lives back here for a little while.”

 

“Oh dear, I am so very sorry to hear”- Darren begins, before he breaks off when he realizes that Alice is trying to mouth something at him. That something is, _‘It’s rather affected her memory.’_ His brow furrows. Clearly he doesn’t understand what she’s trying to tell him. 

 

You do however, and feeling angry you step to the side and say, “Just because its affected my mind doesn’t mean that I’m stupid.” Both Darren and your sister’s mouths open. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” you say persistently, turning away because you find that you just can’t look at either of them. You begin to head towards the door, but-

 

“F/N, please stay a moment,” Darren calls after you. You stop, but you do not turn around. If you did then you would have seen how Darren’s eyes are wide and worried. “No one thinks that you’re stupid.”

 

You let out a sigh, but still you don’t turn around. Instead you just walk until you’re back outside and the cool November breeze is hitting every inch of bare skin that it can find. 

 

You duck your head further into your coat. 

 

“I think you should go back in there and apologize,” Alice says in a breathless fashion as soon as she catches up with you. You don’t talk to her.

 

Once you get home your mother looks up at you from where she’s writing a card by the table. She smiles momentarily when she sees the chain that’s hanging around your neck, before her face grows more troubled when she sees the dark expression that’s on your face. 

 

“F/N what”-

 

“She was rude to Darren!” your sister exclaims in a burst of anger as she tumbles in after you, before she makes to viciously tug her red coat off.

 

“For the record I wasn't rude to anyone!” you growl, turning on her. “You were the one making me out to be some kind of idiot!”

 

Alice opens her mouth to argue, but-

 

_“Girls,”_ your mother says placatingly, raising her hands. Alice and you glower at her. “Honestly, it’s like I’ve gone back in time.” She realizes what she’s said a moment too late and her face pales. 

 

“Yes, just like they’re teenagers again,” your father says from the armchair where he’s reading the paper. He’s evidently unaware that a faux pas has just been committed. 

 

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say anything. 

 

Alice pushes past you and sits down at the small, rectangular wooden table with a thump. “I had to invite Darren for lunch after church on Sunday just to make up for it.”

 

Your mother purses her lips. You get the impression that she, like you, is of the belief that Alice had invited Darren to lunch with an ulterior motive in mind. “In that case,” your mother says to Alice, “I hope that _you’ll_ be the one cooking that day.” Your sister scowls. 

 

You, in no mood to stay in the same room as Alice, march upstairs. You can’t understand why she’s behaving like such an idiot. She has a boyfriend who she’s really seemed to love and adore up until now. A boyfriend who seems like such a perfect fit for her, so why is she showing such a blatant interest in Darren? Why is she being so different from the person you know that she’s capable of being? 

 

*

 

Despite the fact that people surround you that Sunday at church you feel oddly isolated. Your parents sit either side of you in one of the middle pews on the right, whilst your sister sits at the front, hanging off Darren’s every word. Your father keeps looking at you worriedly, whilst your mother clutches at the hand of yours that rests upon your lap. Still, in the main that feeling of being alone is an internal one. 

 

It doesn’t get exposed until Darren says as part of his prayer “…God one of our own has come back to us today after suffering a great trauma. I pray that F/N L/N will have the strength to get through it and that she’ll have the courage to know that sanctuary can always be found in your arms, oh Lord.”

 

More than one person’s head turns towards you and you duck your own feeling enraged. Why on earth did Darren have to include you in his prayer? What right does he have to draw everyone’s attention to you like that? To make you feel even _more_ like an ‘other?’ Your mother attempts to squeeze at your hand, but you tug it away from her feeling angry. Her lips part as your eyes go to her. You can’t bear to see her face looking anxiously at you any more. Can’t bear to be an exhibit. You swallow and rise a little unsteadily to your feet, before you push past everyone and walk as quickly as you can outside. 

 

Darren looks after you with worried eyes. 

 

You stop for a couple of moments outside the church doors, panting and taking in the feel of the sun’s feeble rays upon your face. You don’t dare admit that you partly stop too because you want someone to come out after you. Want someone to make you feel like you’re really not as alone as you think you are. No one comes. You let out a sigh that flutters in the breeze, before you head home. 

 

Once you get there you tug off your coat and wait on the armchair. 

 

When the others get home and tumble inside, their faces slightly flushed from the cold your father gives you a judgemental look, before he says, “You could have made a start on lunch. I assume that you still know how to use an oven?” Clearly he’d expected you to be as right as rain by now and would like for you to get over yourself. 

 

You feel a prickle of irritation run through you, and your mouth opens to blurt out some sarcastic response. Before you can however-

 

_“F/N,”_ Darren says, appearing suddenly in the opening that forms between your parents, “I was wondering, could I have a word?”

 

You get up, thankful for the distraction. 

 

Alice, who’d got around to half pulling her coat off, slips it back on again, adjusts the collar and says, “I’ll come with you.”

 

Darren looks suddenly awkward. _“Actually,”_ he says, looking in between the both of you, “I’d rather just talk to F/N in private.” Your parents exchange a glance, but too busy looking at Darren you don’t notice it. 

 

A dark shadow passes over Alice’s face. She bites at her lip, before she gives a reluctant jerk of her head. Darren looks relieved. 

 

You slip your coat on and follow him outside, folding your arms as soon as the cold air encircles you. 

 

“I feel like I owe you an apology,” Darren says as soon as you both come to a stop on the pavement outside the cottage. You look at him searchingly. He lets out a little breath, before he looks back at you. “I was trying to make you feel included in the community here, _welcome,_ but I think I just made you feel the opposite instead…” he trails off. You look away for a moment and towards the houses across the road. “F/N?” You look back at him to see that his eyes are on yours. “You know that you’re not alone don’t you? I-I know that your sister is going back today, and that must be difficult, but if you ever wanted someone to talk to?”- you nod as Darren breaks off, even though you still feel hollow inside. Knowing that you’re thinking he’s just saying such a thing, he adds, “I’d like to meet up with you once a week if that would be okay?” Again you look at him. “I think there are some passages in the Bible that you’ll find helpful.” You glance away, before you look back and nod. You get the feeling that you’re not going to find what you want, but it can’t hurt, and it might be nice to have company other than your parents. Darren looks relieved and you follow him back inside. 

 

“I think you’re being very kind,” Alice says over lunch when she hears what Darren has planned for you. “Especially since F/N has not shown you such kindness herself.” A tension falls on everyone’s shoulders with a thump, like snow off a roof. You feel suddenly breathless, anger burns inside your mind and your hands tighten around your cutlery. 

 

“F/N’s suffered a great trauma. I wouldn't expect”- Darren begins, again demonstrating that same kindness, which Alice had marked him out with. 

 

“Yes, but is that really an excuse for treating others so rudely?”-

 

You slam your cutlery down on your plate and glare at her. 

 

“F/N dear”- your mother begins, grasping at your wrist at the same time that Alice says, “See what I mean Darren? She’s just angry and incapable of”-

 

“Maybe I am angry!” you say, wrenching your arm away from your mother and getting to your feet. “I’ve lost four years of my life”-

 

“And everyone’s just trying to help you, but you’re acting like a selfish brat”- Alice says, rising to her feet. 

 

“Help me?” you exclaim, “How is you drooling over Darren when you’ve already got a boyfriend supposed to help me?”

 

A stunned silence meets your words. Your parents go completely still. Darren swallows his current mouthful with difficulty, before an awkward little smile appears on his face. 

 

Your sister lets out a little mocking laugh. “I haven’t got a boyfriend,” she says as an aside to Darren. 

 

Your brow furrows. “Yes you have. _Ryan”-_

 

“F/N,” Alice says with a forced kind of patience, “Ryan and I broke up over two years ago.”

 

Your body sways with the news. You feel once more like you’ve lost your footing. Again life isn't as you were expecting it to be. “I don’t understand-you were-you seemed so perfect…”

 

_“Yeah?_ Well turns out that we weren’t so perfect after all,” your sister says dismissively. 

 

“F/N,” your mother says, reaching for your wrist again, “Why don’t you sit down and finish the rest of your dinner?”

 

Your lips part. You look around at them all. Alice is surveying you with a cool, but even expression upon her face. Your mother looks regretful. Your father embarrassed about you causing such a scene in front of Darren, whilst Darren himself looks at you with pity in his eyes. You don’t want any of their expressions. They just make you feel even more inadequate. You shake your head, move away from them all and head upstairs. 

 

In your bedroom you rip the silver chain you’ve been wearing all day every day ever since your sister gave it to you off and knock a couple of books from the shelves, before you sit down on the edge of your bed with a thump. 

 

It’s about an hour later when there comes a knock on your door. 

 

“F/N? I'm going now,” Alice tells you cautiously.

 

“Good,” the word spills out of your mouth without you being able to help it. 

 

“You know,” Alice begins, and there’s a bite of impatience in her tone, “You’ll have to let someone in sometime if you’re going to get better.”

 

You pick up one of the books that you’d knocked off earlier from the floor, before you throw it at the door. 

 

You hear a little gasp leave Alice’s lips. A moment later she says rather dejectedly, “Bye F/N.” You hear the soft pad of her footsteps returning downstairs. You stare at the door feeling angry.

 

*

 

That morning, just before you come to be fully awake a flickering of something crosses your mind. It’s the sensation of warmth, and it burns a bright orange in your mind. You feel like you’re standing up somewhere, perhaps in a sitting room, surrounded by friends and on the verge of laughter. It’s gone, before you can properly understand it, and you feel suddenly hollow inside as you remember where you are in the present and how your sister has gone home, leaving you stuck with your parents. You wish that you’d been kinder to her yesterday, even though she’d annoyed you. 

 

A week passes with moments such as this. Moments where you dream about things that you feel sure have some connection to your past, but only remember odd little fragments of them that don’t seem to make any sense to you. Two armchairs. Someone talking very quickly. For some reason cake. A bride, you definitely remember something about a bride. That makes more sense to you. You’re twenty-five, you’d probably gone to one wedding at least in your life. John and Mary are married so perhaps it had been theirs. But you see a body too, in a morgue, and that doesn’t make sense to you. It doesn’t exactly scare you. In fact it fascinates you and soon you find yourself lying on your bed first thing in the morning and whenever you get a chance and crafting all these exciting stories in your head, getting lost in them and making the past life that you can’t remember probably far more thrilling than it had ever been. Sometimes it won’t be images, but lines that come to you as you either awake or fall asleep. Lines about murder or crime that you think must just be a recollection of some book you’d once read or even from a film, but you weave them into the fun stories you tell yourself. There are also lines though that don’t make sense. One about a goldfish in a voice you can’t place. You find yourself doodling it down on a piece of paper in your room. _‘I'm living in a world of goldfish.’_ It has no meaning to you, but for some reason you like it, and you find yourself smiling as you draw a tiny fish next to the words. You get a writing pad from the shop and stuff it inside, adding bits and pieces which come to you in the front and frowning at them. At the back you add a few notes from the stories you’ve crafted. Perhaps you’ll use them one day. Still, as you flick back to the beginning each time you wish that you could use them for more than just stories. Wish that you could understand their proper meanings and contexts.   
Sometimes, more often than not in fact, you find yourself thinking about Mycroft. You’d rather that you didn't because it just leads to your body filling up with even more confusion, but you can’t help it. You’re not quite sure how to feel about him, but you do know that he intrigues you. Sometimes when you’re feeling particularly frustrated from over-thinking or from flipping through your notebook and seeing so many of the things that you do not understand you’ll lie in bed and feel irritated with yourself. You had, had the chance when you’d been in 221C to ask him for the truth of your relationship. To ask him if you’d _really_ slept together or to ask him why he was saying such a thing in the first place, even just to ask him something about himself if you hadn’t been able to manage anything more with everyone else there, but you hadn’t asked any of that. You’d just let the opportunity pass by you without saying anything and now you’re here in Wales unable to move on because you’re so full of questions that you have absolutely no chance of getting any answers to any time soon. Sometimes you feel like going back to London, but you just don’t have the courage to. You’re stuck. 

 

Your mood decreases as the month changes into December. Your mother keeps giving you things to do: go to the shop, help her in the kitchen, call your Grandma. If you make a fuss or get angry about anything then she gives you that concerned, worried look, which you hate. You've already been to the doctors twice. Once to keep a proper follow-up appointment. The other because your mother was worried about you and had forced you to go with her. What she, and your father don’t seem to understand in fact is that you both want to be alone and you don’t. When you’re alone more often than not you just end up crying because you get so confused about everything. But when you’re with your parents you just feel smothered and angry, like you’ve been robbed of more than just memories but your independence too. You just don’t know how to behave and how to cope with being you. 

 

One day, as Darren pops around true to his word you both take over the kitchen table as you go through passages from the Bible. Darren writes some of them down for you and encourages you to discuss them. You do your best, but the whole thing just makes you feel restless and angry. You feel like you’re back in school again, trying to make sense of a maths equation that you don’t understand. It’s not long, before you’re rising and drifting upstairs. You can hear your mother apologizing to Darren as you go, and the thud of the front door comes not long after. The next time you see him he’ll probably look at you sympathetically and you hate it. 

 

Your father comes in to tell you off. “You have to stop being like this,” he says. You lie down on your bed, before you turn around, so that you’re facing the wall. You can hear him letting out a sigh, before he leaves. 

 

You know that everyone’s disappointed in you, but it’s not like you can help your behaviour. Not much anyway. You wriggle around, whilst your stomach churns. What would your parents, Alice and Darren be like if _they’d_ lost four years of their life though? Just how would they cope with it any better than you are? If they’d come to somewhere that should be quiet and peaceful, only to feel more lost and restless than ever because none of the answers are here? You let out a sigh. 

 

“F/N?” your mother calls you from downstairs. 

 

_“What?”_ you respond, lifting your head up irritably, annoyed to have your thought-even though it had been of the depressing kind-interrupted. 

 

“There’s a couple of people here to see you,” she answers in a firm tone that tells you she’s once more disappointed in you. 

 

Still, despite such a thing, you roll around, feeling both puzzled and intrigued by her words. Since she can’t mean Darren you don’t have a clue who it could be. You smooth your clothes down, run a quick hand through your hair and make your way downstairs. 

 

You let out a little breath once you come to the bottom, push the door open and see Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan standing there. 

 

Greg, looking far too tall for the cottage, looks relieved when he sees you, whilst Sally’s face visibly brightens. 

 

“F/N, it’s good to see you,” she says. 

 

You nod, trying to smile back at her, but quite honestly you feel like it’s rather odd to have this sudden merging of the city-country worlds and you feel a little tentative about what exactly they could be doing there too. 

 

Greg though looks more serious. “F/N, perhaps you could take a seat next to your parents?” he asks. 

 

You half-nod, suddenly realizing, as you look around that your parents are sitting on the settee. You join them, sitting on the end, closest to the armchair. Your mother pats at your knee. 

 

Sally takes up the armchair and Greg comes to stand next to her. 

 

“F/N,” Greg begins, and Sally shifts forwards and cups at your clasped hands with one of hers. You stare at them both apprehensively. “We haven’t exactly come here to give you the best news I'm afraid. I’d much rather have come here today to tell you that we've got whoever caused the hit and run, and that we've arrested them. But I'm afraid, that though the case will still officially be open, we can’t further progress with it at the present”-

 

“You’re closing it?” Your mother interrupts Greg to exclaim, before she slaps both hands over her mouth. 

 

“No, as I said, it will still be open”- Greg corrects. 

 

“Can’t you do one of those appeal things?” your father asks. 

 

“Well”- Greg begins hesitantly, before he breaks off when you stand up. 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” you mumble. 

 

Your mother tugs at your arm as if you’re being silly. “F/N, sit back down,” she says.

 

You shake your head. Tears spill suddenly out of your eyes. “No, don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter.” Everyone looks at you in alarm. Your gaze goes to Sally. You know her well and she’s not family. Perhaps she might understand. “That’s never mattered to me, what matters is that I should-I should”-

 

“F/N, come with me,” Sally says, standing up. 

 

Your mother opens her mouth to protest, but Greg raises a hand to stop her. Her eyes go to your father who nods. She lets out a little breath and slumps back down. 

 

Sally guides you outside. You take a walk just outside of the town, coming to a stop by a gate that overlooks a sloping field. Hills reign supreme in the distance, carved out by the muddy grey sky that threatens rain. 

 

“I just want to move on, but I can’t because I don’t have any answers and no one seems to get how annoying that is. Alice is pissed off because I thought that she was still going out with Ryan and I embarrassed her in front of Darren-that’s the vicar- who she now likes. My father’s impatient about how long it’s taking for me to get over all this, and my mother-my mother thinks that I’ve got depression. I know that she does,” you splutter and wipe at your eyes. “I just-I just think that I need to get those answers or manage this better somehow because I can’t-I can’t”- you break off. 

 

Sally lays a steadying hand upon your arm. “Do you think that you might be better off going back to the city?” she asks. “You might find that even if you don’t get the answers you want that being around everyone you used to know and inside the comfort of your flat might help.”

 

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, “I'm not sure if I-I could. I want answers, but”- you break off. You want answers, but as much as your family is frustrating you, you know that at the end of the day they love you and will protect you. Would going back to the city right now and to all those people who you don’t feel as if you know really be the best thing? It might be best just to stay here and gather your strength a little more. You don’t want to admit either that you’re scared that you might never be able to reconcile the old you with this new one. 

 

Sally swallows. Then, sensing that you’re perhaps not ready yet to take that conversation any further forward, she asks, “What exactly have you been doing since getting here anyway?”

 

“Not much,” you confess, “Like I said making people hate me mostly.” Sally swallows. “Darren has been coming around and reading me passages from the Bible. Everyone seems to think it might help.” Sally pulls a face. You let out a choked snort. 

 

“I know it sounds from what you’re telling me like you haven’t, but I have to ask. Have you remembered anything at all?” Sally asks tentatively. 

 

“Bits and pieces,” you sniff, and Sally’s face brightens a little. But when you add, “I think,” she looks at you in puzzlement. “I get flashes of things sometimes, a line might come to me, or an image, but they’re all so random. It could just be that I'm making it up. If you put them all together then they would make a great story.” 

 

Sally takes that in for a moment. “And,” she begins hesitantly, “Has anything come back to you about the accident? Even if you’re not sure whether it’s real”- 

 

“No,” you gurgle, before you look at her more desperately, “But I told you, finding who did this is not what matters to me. Why do I care if some person who made a mistake gets prosecuted when I'm left with this? When I have to deal with the fact that everyone seems to be expecting me to be this person I'm not? That’s what I’ll have to deal with whether anyone gets charged”-

 

“F/N, you should care because it wasn't an accident”- Sally blurts out, before she rams her hands over her mouth. 

 

_“What?”_ you breathe. Sally swallows, looking regretful and annoyed with herself. _“Sally?”_ you push. 

 

Sally lets out a breath, before she nods when she makes up her mind and says, “We have reason to believe that you were deliberately targeted”-you let out a breath-“I strongly suspect that Mycroft had something to do with it.”

 

“What? But-I- _why?”_ you respond in a strangled voice. 

 

“I think you rejected him and”-

 

“What? But according to you it sounded like I really fancied him? Like I put him before any other man? Why would I reject him?”

 

“Listen,” Sally says, rubbing at your arm a little, “I know that it’s hard to understand it all. It’s hard for me to try and make sense of it too, but you have to understand a few things about Mycroft F/N and you have to understand them fast. He is a snake.” You blink at her. “He’s devious and he’s conniving and he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. He’s cold. He’s ambitious”-

 

_“You’re_ ambitious,” you protest. 

 

Sally huffs out a breath. “Not like that.” You open your mouth. She clutches at your arm. “Listen, it took you a while, but I think you finally saw the real Mycroft Holmes that night. I think you decided that you didn't want him at the exact moment that he decided he wanted you. I believe that he made a pass at you and you rejected him.” You let out a breath, struggling to keep up with all this new information. “I then believe that because it was late you stayed the night and that he woke up with this plan in his head. He would have been mortified if you’d gone storming off telling us all about what had happened, telling his _brother,_ so he got someone to run you over and now he’s trying to hush it all up and shut it down because he knows that I'm on to him. Hell, if you could just remember then you’d probably be on to him too.” 

 

Shaking with anger you ask, “Why didn't you tell me this before?” 

 

“I”-

 

“Do my parents know? Does _everyone_ know?”

 

Sally opens her mouth. But you can see the truth of it in her eyes. You let out a disbelieving, frustrated breath and march back home. 

 

The door slams upon your entry. “Why didn't you tell me?” you ask as Greg looks at you calculatingly and your parents look at you in astonishment. 

 

“F/N, whatever”- your mother begins.

 

“My accident wasn't an accident and Mycroft’s probably responsible for it!” 

 

“F/N, I”- Sally begins, stepping forwards, but it’s already too late to do damage control. 

 

“What?” your mother splutters, looking in between the Detective Inspector who looks very troubled indeed and Sally, before she glances back at you. “Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

 

“If he’s the prime suspect then why aren't you arresting him?” your father asks, digesting the news quicker. 

 

“Because there’s no evidence!” Greg barks out, waving his hands and finally losing a little control.

 

“No evidence? Sally’s got a whole theory!” you yell. 

 

Your mother looks at Sally, who draws herself up looking rather defiant.

 

Greg lets out a frustrated groan and everyone looks at him. He looks at you. “F/N I know that Sally’s your friend, and the only friend that you can remember, but what you need to know is that in spite of that and despite the fact that yes, she’s a good officer, sometimes, especially where the Holmes brothers are concerned she gets these theories into her head that aren't true.” Sally lets out an indignant huff. “You should know that I’ve spoken to Mycroft and I'm satisfied that he didn't have anything to do with your incident.” 

 

“Then maybe you could tell me what went on between me and him because I'm just not getting it right now,” you say, before you let out a desperate breath and go on, “I’ve got Sally saying that he organized the hit and run on me and you saying that he didn't. What went on? What happened between us?”

 

“I don’t know what happened between Mycroft and you F/N. I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that as far as I'm aware nothing did”-

 

“But do you really believe that Detective Inspector?” your mother asks. 

 

“It’s all that I know,” Greg shrugs at her. “I never saw anything with my own eyes and until I'm given evidence to the prior it’s all I have to believe.” He looks down, feeling a mixture of things-guilt for not exactly getting the whole truth out about Mycroft and you, and regret for the fact that nothing had ever happened between himself and you.

 

Your mother makes an unsatisfied sound in her throat. “That may be,” she says, “But,” she adds, turning to Sally, “I think that I’d like to hear more about these theories of yours.” Greg makes a sound of protest. Your mother turns to him. “There’s no smoke without fire Detective. You said it yourself that the Sergeant here has got a particular case against these two brothers, so I’d like to find out more about them and just exactly who my daughter’s been hanging around with in her time in London.”

 

You swallow. You’d like to hear more too of course, but your mother’s determination to do the same scares you.

 

Greg’s hesitant as well, “I'm not sure if”-

 

“No,” your mother interrupts, “If you can’t do much else right now then you can at the very least do this.”

 

“We should really be getting back to London Mrs. L/N,” Sally attempts, “We only came here because we wanted to tell you in person and see how F/N was doing.”

 

“No,” your mother says firmly, “I insist. I’ll even make us all a cup of tea, before we get going.”

 

Sally and Greg exchange a glance. They must see that they finally have no choice, for Greg nods his head. 

 

Once all of you are settled-your parents and you on the settee-Sally in the armchair and Greg on a rickety chair that’s been brought down from upstairs, and your mother has passed the tea around, giving both Sally and Greg their cups rather roughly, the story of who you’d known in London can finally begin. Your heart thumps in anticipation. 

 

“Well,” Greg begins, “F/N knew Sally, before she came to London of course, and I got to know her through Sally”- he breaks off to smile at you. 

 

“What about the people she lived with?” your mother asks, steering the conversation, and again you swallow. 

 

“Well,” Greg exchanges a glance with Sally, “There’s Mrs. Hudson the landlady”-

 

“What about that man upstairs?” your father asks, “The brother of that man you were on about earlier?” 

 

“Sherlock’s a consulting detective Mr. L/N,” Greg informs him politely. 

 

“So much for him being a scientist,” your mother says with a frown at you, and you suddenly feel irked at the way that you’re being chided for a past lie that you don’t even remember telling. Something whispers inside your mind, but your irritation overrides it. “What exactly does that mean?” she asks, looking back at Greg. “It sounds a bit odd, a bit niche.” 

 

Sally lets out a bit of a sigh. 

 

“It means that he assists the police with cases sometimes,” Greg says with a forced evenness. 

 

“Wow,” you can’t help but be impressed. Greg looks at you with a bit of an amused smile upon his face. You can’t know that to him, for the first time in an age, you seem genuinely yourself. Your mind darts back to all the stories you’ve been making up in your head for a moment. Perhaps they’re more real than you’d thought, you think. “Did I ever help out on any cases at all?” you ask keenly. 

 

“Now and again,” Greg says, carefully avoiding the eyes of your parents. He doesn’t want to reveal that you’ve had some role in over one-third of cases that Sherlock’s been involved in, and he definitely doesn’t want to tell them about the time that you’d gone to Dartmoor with Sherlock and John. The hound may have turned out to be smaller than first thought, but he’s sure that they wouldn't approve of the way you’d been running about there, at times wielding a firearm that he’d given you for your own protection, _or_ the way that you’d been drugged. “You used to say that going out on them or reading John’s blog inspired your writing,” he says as he comes out of his thought.

 

You smile because you can believe that, before you ask, “John has a blog?” You’re much more interested in where this is all going now. 

 

“Yes, perhaps I could send you the link sometime. It might help”-

 

“I actually think that would be more of a hindrance than a help Detective Inspector,” your mother cuts him off firmly. 

 

“But I”-

 

“That’s the end of it,” your mother raises a hand, cutting off your feeble protest. “In any case we have a very slow Internet connection here, and since we did not bring F/N’s laptop with us, and you still have her phone”-

 

“Actually,” Sally says, pulling your phone out of her pocket and handing it to you, “We don’t need it any more.” 

 

Your fingers curl around it. You feel suddenly triumphant. 

 

“Hand that here F/N,” your mother says, standing up and reaching a hand out towards you. You lean back and place the phone tightly against your stomach. A part of you feels confused and the other afraid. Why is your mother hindering you? You've felt like since the first time you got here you’re making progress. Things are still confusing to you, but you’re starting to create more of a clearer picture now, so why is she punishing you for such a thing? “Hand it over. I’ll look after it for you.”

 

“I”-

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“No,” you utter. Every inch of you is telling you not to give the phone up. Every pore screams that it’s vital. You lean even further back. You feel suddenly like crying, and for a moment as you do tears blur your vision. 

 

“Mrs. L/N,” Greg begins more tactfully, “I understand that you’re concerned about your daughter. Perhaps you’re worried about what being over-stimulated might do to her, but I can’t see how giving her, her phone can hurt. If she looks through old contacts and messages then it might really help. We picked up F/N’s laptop on our way down here for the exact same purpose. She used to be on it all the time. It can only be of assistance. We've got it in the car”-

 

“I appreciate your words Detective Inspector,” your mother begins in a tone that says the complete opposite, “But I know what’s best for my daughter. Now F/N,” she says, turning back to you once more, “Stop being silly and hand that here.”

 

You swallow, but the way that your mother’s looking at you tells you that you have little choice. Slowly, you hand it over. Greg and Sally exchange an unhappy glance. 

 

It’s your mother’s turn to look triumphant. “There,” she says, slipping it into her pocket and sitting back down. She pats at your knee. “Now, we’ll get your laptop out of the car in a moment and I’ll take that too. But perhaps for now you could tell us more about this John that you mentioned Detective Inspector. Is he a consulting detective too?” 

 

The whisper in your mind earlier turns into a shout, and a past memory flashes before you. You see yourself and your mother standing in the kitchen of the cottage. She’s close to one of the counters and you’ve got a cup of tea in your hands. She’s looking at you rather sternly. “Now F/N, I'm not really sure about these people that you hang around with in London. You’re always so vague whenever I bring them up. Are you really sure that they’re being good friends to you dear?”

 

“Yes,” is all you can hear your past self say with certainty, before the memory fades. In the present you scrunch your face up and let out a little, _“Ngh,”_ noise. The silver chain around your neck feels like it’s suddenly strangling you. You tug it further down. 

 

_“F/N?”_ your mother questions, looking at you concernedly as the ripples on your face smooth over and you open your eyes once more. She pats at your knee. “Are you all right?” 

 

“Yes,” you pull your leg away. It’s just a fraction, but enough to make your mother frown. _“See?_ You weren’t wrong about me being worried about her being over-stimulated Detective Inspector,” she gives Greg a bit of a severe look, before she turns her attention back to you. “Perhaps you should go upstairs for a bit? Wash your face and have a bit of a lie down?” 

 

You shake your head. “I'm fine Mother.” You look back at Greg. “You were going to say about John?” you remind him. 

 

Greg nods. He glances at your mother, but when she doesn’t show any signs of protesting, he looks back at you and says, “He was an Army Doctor. He got wounded in Afghanistan. Shortly after he came back here he met Sherlock, and they shared 221B for a while. He helps out on cases and works in the surgery for the rest of the time. He lives elsewhere with Mary now, but he was a very good friend to you. I know that since your incident he’s been worried about you, as has everyone else.” Something tightens around your mother’s mouth, but you’re too engrossed looking at Greg to notice. 

 

“What about this Mycroft then? Where does he fit into all this?” your mother asks, and your hands feel suddenly clammy and your heart feels as if it’s in your throat because now you’re back at where this conversation had really begun and it’s back to the issue of Mycroft and you. 

 

Greg’s eyes dart to you for one moment, and there’s a delicacy in his eyes as if he’s trying to tell you something, before he looks back at your mother and says, “It’s like I said earlier Mrs. L/N, as far as I know nothing ever occurred between Mycroft and your daughter. As far as I know all that passed between them was the odd word whenever he’d come around to visit his brother.” Again his regret for things, which had occurred in the past stop him from getting the entire truth out, but his feeling that he has to take a step back from this do too. After all, if you are to properly understand your relationship with Mycroft then it’s him you need to talk to, no one else. _Him_ that you need to be around. 

 

“Again Detective, I'm not sure if I believe you,” your mother says and Greg swallows. “What exactly is it that Mycroft does for a living?” she sniffs. 

 

“He, erm, he has a minor position in the British Government,” Greg replies. 

 

Sally lets out an amused sounding cough. You look at her feeling confused. You get the feeling that Sally and Greg are hiding something about Mycroft and that you wouldn't get anything more out of them even if you were to question them yourself right now. Once more you get the uncomfortable feeling that you’re going to have to head back to London if you want all the answers that you’re seeking. Your heart dips. 

 

“I see,” your mother says, “And you can’t tell us anything more about him?” Greg bites at his lip for a moment and looks down, before he shakes his head. “Right,” your mother says, “I think we should head to the car then.”

 

There’s a brief flurry of activity as everyone heads out. Your mother takes your laptop, before you can even touch it, and you find yourself staring at it forlornly, wondering what secrets it holds about your past life. 

 

*

 

“God, I'm glad to get out of there,” Greg breathes, speaking from the driver’s seat once Sally and he have left the town and got onto a clearer piece of road. 

 

“I just wish we could get F/N out of there too,” Sally sighs. “She deserves better than just having her parents and a vicar called Darren for company.”

 

Greg looks across at her with narrowed eyes. “You better not be thinking of doing something stupid- _again._ What were you even thinking telling F/N that? You’re lucky that I'm not throwing you off this case altogether.”

 

“It just came out,” Sally protests with a little wave of her hands, “Don’t tell me that if we thought of a way you wouldn't want to get F/N out of there too? You saw the way that they wouldn't even let her have her laptop or phone back. She’s better off with friends and her independence.”

 

“Yes,” Greg huffs, “But we can’t just take her. That wouldn't be right either.” Sally looks at him maddeningly. Greg-with his eyes on the road-can’t see her clearly, but he can feel the intensity of her gaze out of the corner of his vision. “It was clear that she wasn't fully happy, I’ll grant you that much, and that she’s curious about her past life. But if we do anything against her parents then you might find that she goes against us.”

 

Sally frowns and thinks about that for a moment. She can’t deny the logic behind Greg’s words, especially when it’s clear that you’re largely depending on your parents right now and once she remembers how hesitant you’d been earlier. “What if we eased her out of there gradually?” Greg glances at her briefly, before he looks back to the road again. “If we keep talking to her, keep letting her know that there’s no reason for her to be afraid of going back, despite her four year memory gap, then maybe she’ll decide that she wants to return to London after all. Or at least go there on a visit or something.”

 

Greg chews on his lip for a moment and navigates the next bend, before he replies, “Okay.” Sally’s face brightens. “But we’ll have to take this slow.”

 

Sally nods.

 

*

 

You try to stay awake for as long as possible that night. As far as your parents know you’ve gone to bed, but you lie there fully dressed, the conversation that you’d been a part of with Greg and Sally flowing through your mind. You feel determined to find out more about who exactly you’d been in your past life. As soon as your parents go to bed you’ll wait long enough for them to fall asleep, you think. Then you’ll sneak down and find your laptop and phone. You just hope that your mother hasn’t put them anywhere too secure, or even worse that she’s hiding them in father and hers bedroom. You have a vision now of yourself creeping in, hunched over close to the floor as if you’re in a real-life version of some children’s game, whilst your father snores and your mother’s golden crucifix is the only light that you can see in the dark. You shudder a little. You _really_ don’t want to do that. You feel sure that you’d get caught and then God knows what would happen to all your precious things. 

 

The minutes tick by. You wait and wait. Still your parents don’t go to bed. You frown, wondering what on earth’s going on. You squint at the clock on the bedside cabinet. It’s gone midnight. Usually by now your parents would be tucked up, waiting for sleep to come. You’d expected them to be in bed by eleven in fact. You wait and wait. Your mind grows more puzzled and your body more tired. You find yourself relaxing into a more comfortable position. Find yourself closing your eyes just to rest them…

 

*

 

You wake to the smell of burning smoke. Your body jerks upwards confusedly and you blink the sleep out of your eyes. _1:07_ the alarm clock says steadily in red. You huff out a breath, annoyed with yourself for falling asleep and swing out of bed. You move across to the curtain and draw it back. Darkness is all that you can see. Frowning you allow the curtain to swing back into place, turn around and pad into the bathroom. You know that something’s wrong as soon as you see the shadow of something flickering against the green curtains. Your heart gives a great twinge of anxiety and you hurry across. Your hand shakes as you draw the curtain back and a great gasp leaves your mouth when you see orange flames springing upward in the dark. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust and for you to realize that the flames are coming out of a barrel. A figure standing close by lifts up a battered, rectangular shaped device. You shuffle forwards, your hands coming up to steady yourself as your face presses against the glass. You recognize with a start that the device is your laptop. Your lips part. Your mother, for you can tell that it is her now that your eyes have adjusted more clearly, seems to hold your laptop out to the fire as an offering, before she lobs it in. You let out a, _“No,”_ that no one can hear as the flames lick around it greedily. Judging by the size of them it is not hard to believe that your phone has already met the same fate. You wrench your head back and let the curtain fall shut. You don’t see the way that your father, who has been standing in the entranceway of the back door, closes it behind him and joins your mother, _or_ the way that they hug one another, whilst tears of desperation leak out of your mother’s eyes. Instead you shakily go back to your bedroom and sit down on the edge of the bed. You feel so wide-awake and panicked by what you’ve just seen that you can barely keep still. You get up again and pace back and forth, your hands going up to feebly press against your cheeks when tears begin to fall. What on earth are your parents doing? Keeping your laptop and phone from you is one thing, but destroying them is quite another. What are you supposed to do now that your only two ways of finding more out about yourself have been lost? Damaged beyond irretrievable measure? How on earth are you supposed to recover and properly come to terms with everything, let alone become that person again, if you can’t even properly see the person that you used to be? You pant and move around breathlessly, your mind going around the same circle until you’re so exhausted from it all that you have to sit down on the bed. You cling onto the edge of it for a minute, before you lie down on your side, letting out a bit of a whimper as you do so. You've barely closed your eyes though when a thought comes to you. You remember sliding a card into the pocket of your jeans. You've still got that card. You’d slid it underneath your bed for safekeeping when it was time for the jeans to be washed. You reach down and get it out, before you stand. Your insides churn with a renewed hope. Then, carefully, you sneak downstairs to use the phone, whilst your parents are still out, hoping that they don’t catch you. 

 

*

 

There’s a message waiting on Greg’s work phone that morning. He picks it up just as Sally walks in through the open door, looking as if she wants to tell him something. He raises a hand to quell her, before he gestures for her to sit down. She does so with a curious frown upon her face. 

 

“Greg,” the message begins, “I-I can’t talk long, my parents don’t know that I'm doing this, they’re out burning my laptop and phone, but I want either Sally or you, or maybe the both of you if you could, I don’t know, to pick me up and take me back to London. Even if it’s just for a day or two. I need to see everything that I used to and find out more about-about the person I used to be. I don’t think I can move on from this until I do and I have no other way. Could you do that? I have to go. I-It’s F/N if you’re wondering. F/N L/N. I have to go.” The message ends there and Greg saves it, before he slips the phone back down into its cradle. He feels troubled. 

 

_“Sir?”-_ Greg once again raises his hand to stop Sally. 

 

He feels a sudden renewed amount of determination flow through him as he stands up, goes to close the office door and walks back around to sit where he had been. You might not know who you’d once been, but Greg had definitely detected some of the determination of your old self coming through in that message just now and he wants to help you more than ever. “That was F/N,” he says, “She left a message last night, whilst her parents burnt her laptop and phone.” Sally’s eyes widen. “She’d like it if one of us could pick her up and show her the London that she used to be familiar with. I'm assuming old haunts, that kind of thing.”

 

Sally looks triumphant. “There we go then. I’ll go up there as soon as possible and”-

 

Greg shakes his head. “No.”

 

_“What?”_ Sally exclaims, “You want”- she breaks off. Her face clears with a sudden understanding, before it transforms into an expression of disgust. _“Oh”-_ she folds her arms-“I know what this is. This is you wanting to take advantage of F/N’s little memory loss so that you can try and get together with her”-

 

“I want to do no such thing,” Greg interrupts, “It would be immoral of me.” Sally looks at him judgementally. “Okay,” he raises his hands, “I admit that I'm still getting over her rejecting me and that was partly why I wasn't as open as I could have been with both her parents and her yesterday. But now this has happened I think that if anyone shows F/N around London it should be Mycroft.” 

 

_“Mycroft?”_ Sally exclaims, waving her hands. 

 

Greg nods and stands up. “You owe him,” he says, pointing at her. “After what you told F/N. You know full well I'm sure that Mycroft had nothing to do with this. You just wanted to use your own vendetta against the Holmes brothers to influence her.”

 

Sally pulls a face. “I don’t know full well anything where that man’s concerned and I don’t see how you can”-

 

“This is not your decision,” Greg tells her, “We’re going to let him have this chance. It’s his own fault if he doesn’t take it or screws it up, and if you impede it in any way then I _will_ be throwing you off this case, mark my words. After confusing F/N so much yesterday you owe her the right to make up her own mind about him.”

 

Sally huffs out a breath and folds her arms. “Is it so bad after everything that she’s been through that I just want her to exercise caution and not get hurt again? Besides, what makes you so sure that he _can_ be trusted?” 

 

Greg looks down at her wearily. “As much as I hate to admit it he does love F/N,” he says, shuffling some papers around his desk. “After talking to him I feel clear about that.” 

 

Sally frowns. “Can someone like him _really_ be capable of love?”

 

“We’re _all_ capable of love,” Greg huffs out, abandoning his papers and giving her his full attention again. Sally doesn’t look convinced. Greg ignores the fact and says, “Now, I'm going around to see him. Did you have anything that you wanted to tell me, before I go?” 

 

Sally’s folded arms become slightly looser, but she still looks pretty mutinous. “Just that there’s been a burglary in Lewisham Street, it sounded pretty violent,” she huffs out. 

 

“Well,” Greg says, sounding pleased that it’s nothing more than that, “I'm sure you can handle that.”

 

Sally ducks her head, rolls her eyes discreetly and nods. 

 

*

 

It’s twenty-past-nine and Mycroft’s finding that he’s already having a very poor day indeed. He’d woken up half-an-hour later than he’d wanted to after getting tangled up in a dream where you’d been at the heart of a maze and no matter, which way he turned he couldn't get to you. Then his cereal had run out and since there had been little of anything in either the fridge or freezer he’d had to spend far longer than he would have liked in drawing up a list, before he could hand it to Anthea who will pick up the items for him later. An e-mail had then come through to him from the Foreign Office, who hadn’t done as he’d previously instructed them to, so he’d made an angry phone call, before he’d finally gotten around to actually starting what he’d wanted to. So, having the Detective Inspector standing in front of him in his office and telling him that he wants to bring you back to London is really the last straw. 

 

His grip nearly breaks the fountain pen that he’s holding. He counts to ten in his mind, before he slowly lowers the pen to the table. Still, that doesn’t stop his voice from coming out in a rumbling tone as he asks, “Did you not understand me the first time Detective Inspector?” He glances towards the door, before he looks back at Greg. “A criminal, who, as we've already discovered, has great potential to hurt F/N is back, and you want to take her from where she is safe and subject her to that?”

 

“Tell me something, why are you so determined to make yourself unhappy?” Greg asks, feeling exasperated, “And why are you so keen to make people unnecessary suspicious of you?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. _“Oh,”_ Greg nods, “I know Sally doesn’t exactly need much provoking, but keeping all this a secret is really fuelling her fire. I know you have to tread carefully,” he goes on, “But everyone’s bound to find out about Moriarty’s return eventually aren't they? So why not just let a few people know now? If I told Sally then she’d understand all this and she wouldn't be threatening to give you more problems.”

 

“Your officers are your concern Detective, it is not my fault that you cannot control them,” Mycroft states coolly and Greg chews on his lip in irritation. Why must Mycroft make everything so hard for himself? “As for the matter about our friend the consulting criminal,” Mycroft goes on, “You have rather answered your own question there. I need to be careful and the less people that know the easier that will be. Besides,” he looks down, and for one tremulous moment his hands threaten to clench upon his desk. He looks back up at Greg. “This has got nothing to do with my happiness. F/N is safe in Wales.”

 

“She might be safe,” Greg frowns, “But that won’t stop her from being unhappy, and leaving her with her parents who won’t even let her use her laptop and phone-they burnt them last night by the way-leaving her feeling like she’s friendless and abandoned with no way to find out who she once was and what she once experienced, well, that’s not good for her mental health let me tell you. That’s not good for her recovery.” Greg swallows. “Surely you want her to get better?”

 

The fingers on Mycroft’s right hand stir, shifting back and forth absent-mindedly against the paperwork that’s upon his desk, whilst he thinks it all over. “Of course I want F/N to get better Detective Inspector,” Mycroft begins, his eyes going back to Greg, “But I fear that ever since she woke up I have been more of a hindrance than help. She seems to think that I'm strange. Perhaps she’s right and I should stay away from her.”

 

“You know as well as I do that, that’s not the answer,” Greg huffs out a breath and runs a hand back through his hair in exasperation. “She just needs to get used to you again like she does with everyone else.” Mycroft looks doubtful. “You’re right,” Greg nods, “It won’t happen if you keep on being so closed off.” Mycroft frowns. “Listen,” Greg shifts his position, “When Sally and I went to see her yesterday do you know when the one time that she looked like her old self again was?” Mycroft doesn’t say anything. His pale blue eyes just remain unblinkingly on Greg. “When I said what Sherlock does for a living and when I spoke to her a bit about John’s blog.”

 

“That doesn’t”-

 

“No,” Greg interrupts Mycroft, “It didn't fully convince me that she should come hurtling back to London either. But you know what? After she left that message on my phone last night I feel differently. Something is driving her here, and I'm sure that once she re-discovers it all she’ll never want to leave. She belongs here. I know that. Now you can either help with that re-adjustment and give her a chance to properly get to know you again, or you can let Sally guide her around. I know that I probably don’t have to spell it out to you that if you do she won’t hesitate to pollute F/N’s mind against you because she doesn’t understand how things really are and you’ve clearly got no intention to make her do so.” Still Mycroft remains motionless. “But I think doing what you’re suggesting and not giving her this chance at all, letting her just wallow in the desert with only her parents and this vicar called Darren for company is”-

 

_“What?”_ Mycroft croaks out suddenly, his hands curling up against the sheaf of papers and something flickering beneath his eyes as he fixes his attention even more intently on Greg. 

 

“It’s cruel Mycroft,” Greg says with a little wave of his hands, “That’s the point I'm making, surely you can”- 

 

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, one of his hands uncurling and swiping against the desk. “The part where you said that the vicar was called Darren?”

 

Greg looks befuddled. “Yes,” he says, “Because he is.” He looks confused. “He’s at the local church. F/N’s parents are religious”-

 

“F/N’s in touch with him how?” Mycroft asks, and there’s an urgency, which covers his entire body so completely that it rather puts Greg off and makes him wary of what answer to give him.

 

“Just through going to church I think. Sally said something about it yesterday. I didn't think it that important. I only mentioned it just now because I wanted you to see how isolated F/N is. How few people she has who actually know her out there.” Mycroft lets out a little sound of irritation. “Is everything all right?” Greg asks. 

 

“Yes, but if that is the end of your little soliloquy then perhaps you could leave Detective? I have quite a lot that I need to do,” Mycroft says, looking down fixedly at his paperwork. 

 

“All right,” Greg frowns, “But I think although you should go, you need to be aware that F/N knows that the incident wasn't an accident now”-Mycroft looks at him-“Sally let it slip yesterday. She also might have hinted that you had something to do with it, again, because she doesn’t understand.”

 

Mycroft sighs, and taking that as his proper dismissal, Greg leaves the office a moment later. 

 

*

 

“We've been fools,” Mycroft informs his little brother who he’s managed to summon to his office in record time. “We thought that just because the system told us where Darren was from and because I had people following him who confirmed that he was a match to Darren’s identity and saw him going about his business that, that was our target safely identified. The reality is that the real Darren Smith has been in Wales in the exact town where F/N originates from for some months now, whilst this imposter has been assimilating his identity in order to trick us.”

 

“Moriarty seems to have been planning this for a very long time,” Sherlock muses, taking in this new information without fuss.

 

Mycroft nods. “By using Darren, someone who is already freely available in the community Moriarty has made sure that there will be nothing suspected of anything being afoot. He’s already made himself a familiar, trusting face to them. Neither will F/N have any due cause to believe the worst of him. As far as she’s concerned someone in London must have caused the incident like we too originally believed. Her parents trust him, so she will too.”

 

“The intention of the incident was not to cause her death then?” Sherlock comments, eyeing his brother studiously from where he’s standing in front of the desk.

 

“No,” Mycroft shakes his head. “It seems as if it was merely to give us all a fright and to make sure that F/N was badly enough injured that her parents would want to take her home and put her in the vicinity of the real Darren Smith. Moriarty knew that we’d find out the truth eventually and see it for what it is: a threat. He has F/N in his grasp and if we make one wrong move or don’t ensure that this case is shut down”-he breaks off, an ugly expression on his face, but Sherlock gets his meaning. 

 

“As for what Darren’s getting out of this?” Sherlock asks. 

 

Mycroft shrugs as if he doesn’t much care for such things. “It could be that he’s not as clean as he’s pretending to be, and that he’s been promised drugs as a reward for his co-operation. But that is neither here nor there and I suspect that it will have no bearing on the future.” He waves a hand. “I assume you know that confronting him is not an issue right now?”

 

Sherlock nods. “But neither is letting F/N stay there indefinitely an option either. Whether it implies to them that we know Darren’s identity or not we have her mental health to consider.” 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft rises, remembering Greg’s earlier words, “Normally I’d be a little more cautious about doing such a thing, but even if it’s only for a little while I think that it’s high-time F/N’s brought back to London and that we made our move in this game.” He swoops around his desk and out of the office so that he can begin to make the preparations.

 

Sherlock smiles knowingly. 

 

*

 

You wake up that following morning to the sound of a helicopter. Feeling groggy you swing upward. The sound comes to a stop. You wonder suddenly if you’d imagined it, or if it had been some part of a dream, which you can’t remember. Perhaps in your past life you or someone you’d known had liked them? That thought doesn’t seem to make much sense to you though, but you’re quickly distracted by the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Your parents don’t seem to be up yet, it is after all only a quarter-to-seven, so you get out of bed and dress quickly, before you hurry downstairs to answer it. 

 

As you unbolt the door and open it you don’t quite know whom you’re expecting. But it’s quite likely that Mycroft Holmes-his hair a little tousled from the helicopter’s breeze as he wears a green tweed suit with a white shirt, light-green waistcoat, a muddy green tie that has diamonds outlined in red on it and his feet stuffed into a pair of wellies as his hand twirls nervously at a black umbrella-is the last person that you’d been expecting. 

 

“Hello F/N,” he says, his eyes glinting seriously, though his thin lips attempt to twitch into a rather apprehensive smile nonetheless. His hand finally stills upon his umbrella. “I’ve come to take you back to London.”


	4. Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion reigns and mistakes are made as Mycroft picks you up in a helicopter and takes you back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support! :D  
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

_“Hello F/N,” he says, his eyes glinting seriously, though his thin lips attempt to twitch into a rather apprehensive smile nonetheless. His hand finally stills upon his umbrella. “I’ve come to take you back to London.”_

As soon as Mycroft says those words it’s like your brain starts melting, turning into nothing more than the equivalent of blood running down a wall. Panic surges up inside you like a tidal wave. Before you know what you’re doing you’re gasping, “No. Where are Sally and Greg?” You attempt to close the door again. 

“F/N please, listen to me,” Mycroft says, wedging his foot in the gap in the door. You ram the door against it hard and force him back. He splays his hands against the shut door and puts one ear towards it.

“No, I'm not going anywhere with you, so you might as well leave. I wanted either Sally or Greg to take me. If neither of them could have then they should have just said so, they shouldn't have sent you without any warning.”

“Sally and Gregory are busy with work,” Mycroft says as patiently as he can, “But I'm available to”-

You make a scoffing noise. “If you think that I'm going to go with you, just so that you can finish off the job”-

“I did not cause you to be hit by a car,” Mycroft says in a desperate voice, “I was not the driver and I was not behind it. You have to believe me. The last thing that I want is for you to be killed,” he goes on fervently. You let out a couple of ragged breaths. “I know that Sally’s put such ideas in your head, but she’s never liked me”-

“Whether she likes you or not you’ve still shown that you’re capable of lying,” you blurt out, and for one dreadful moment Mycroft thinks that you’ve remembered about Sherlock’s fall and all the time after, but then you go on, “You said that we slept together”-

“We did”-

“I don’t believe you,” you stagger back as tears well in your eyes. You can hear the slightest of movements upstairs. “I think Sally’s right, you’re lying”-

“I promise you that I am not lying, but if you want proof that at the very least I care for you then answer me this: Why would I have called for an ambulance if I wanted you dead?”-

“So you could cover it up”- you get out automatically.

“Look at it from another angle then. Why were you in my clothes?” A silence follows and Mycroft seizes upon it to add, “Sally said that we’d argued yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, if that was true, why would I have let you borrow my clothes and why would you have accepted them in the first place?” You let out a little breath and Mycroft can tell that he’s getting somewhere. “If you felt such harshness towards me then why would you have done that?” 

“I don’t know,” you finally say, “But I don’t know why I would have lied to Sally either.”

“You lied to Sally because it was what we both decided was for the best. We’d only just gotten together and we wanted to keep things private.” His fear of you remembering Sherlock’s fall prevents him from saying the exact truth. He knows that if you remember that now and remember how much he’d hurt you then you’ll never come back to London with him and he might as well throw away any chance of ever getting to know you again. 

_“I”-_

Mycroft presses his body more insistently against the door. “I know that this is confusing for you, but I am asking you to trust me. No matter what Sally thinks of me by allowing me to come here today she has shown that she trusts me with you. Even she must know very deep down that she is wrong about me. I am just asking you to show a little of that same trust.” A strangled breath leaves your mouth. You see a sudden flash of the dream you’d had whilst you were in hospital, where Mycroft had been peering over you, asking you to trust him. You get the strangest feeling that, that dream had been preparing you for this very moment. “You want to get answers, yes?” Mycroft goes on.

You close your mouth, swallow and creep closer to the door. Slowly you raise your hands and rest them, so that your fingers are just brushing against the wood. Mycroft seems to sense your close presence and ducks his head down, listening hard. _“I”-_ You do want to get answers, but might Mycroft be able to give you some without you having to go back to London with him?

Suddenly however, before you can ask him, another voice comes. “F/N,” it says. You jerk away from the door with a gasp, before you look over your shoulder to see that your mother’s standing there. Your father is right behind her. They are fully dressed and looking serious. “Come away from there,” your mother says. 

You swallow, your eyes going back to the door. You don’t know what to do. Mycroft’s made some good points, but you’re still feeling very confused and you need to talk to him about this some more. You need to get answers, whether your parents want you to or not. 

Mycroft meanwhile seems to have sensed the commotion and is very quiet. 

Before you can decide what to do your mother pushes past you and opens the door. Your father pulls you back. 

Mycroft is revealed. His eyes fix on you with a pleading kind of worry. They don’t have long to do so however. For your mother says, “I want you to leave.”

Mycroft tears his eyes away from you and looks at her. “I’ve come to take your daughter to London for a visit Mrs. L/N. It will not be long, three, four days perhaps. As long as she wishes”-again his eyes flit briefly to you-“But I promise you that I’ll look after her.”

Your mother draws herself up, shielding even more of you from Mycroft. “My daughter won’t be going anywhere Mr. Holmes. She is not fit to. She’ll be staying here. In any case we wouldn't let her go anywhere with you after what we've heard about you.”

“Greg,” you get out suddenly, and all three of them look at you worriedly. “Greg told us that Sally gets theories into her head sometimes, theories that aren't true…” 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, looking at you hopefully, “He was right. She does.” He looks back to your mother. “Sergeant Donovan has always disliked my brother and I, for no true reason other than the fact that we’re different. But I'm not so different Mrs. L/N that I would ever order a hit and run to be carried out upon your daughter. I have the utmost respect for her and I only wish to help her by taking her back to London.”

Your mother’s face pales. “I'm still of the opinion that she shouldn't go.” 

Mycroft’s eyes dart to you. _“F/N?”_ he asks tentatively. 

You step forwards, away from your father, and state, “I want to go.” It’s the only way you know. Your parents aren't going to let you talk freely with Mycroft here. In any case look at what had happened when Greg and Sally had called and what that had then led to. Your parents, for whatever reason, seem to have decided that the best thing for you is to be wrapped in cotton wool and you need to pull away from that now.

Your mother shoots you an annoyed look over her shoulder. “F/N you will not be going anywhere with a man who might even have the tiniest chance of being involved in all of this, nor with someone who clearly thinks that I'm stupid.” 

“I”- Mycroft gets out the same time as your mouth opens. 

“No, you do,” your mother persists, _“Clearly_ you do if you think that I am not aware of the fact that my daughter losing four years worth of memories of her life is hardly a normal occurrence.” Mycroft and you exchange a quick, introspective look. “For my daughter to have gone back to the time before she’d even moved to London says something to me. It says that either she wishes something about that time could be changed, or perhaps that she even wishes it had never happened at all.” A firm silence meets her words. 

You feel surprised, but then something comes back to you and you say, “I can’t remember going to Sunday school either.”

_“What?”_ your mother turns on you. 

You swallow and then repeat, “I can’t remember going to Sunday school, so perhaps that’s a time I want to forget, didn't enjoy or perhaps it didn't just mean that much to me. But”-your eyes meet Mycroft’s. He’s looking at you a little guardedly, as if he’s not quite sure about you coming to London any more and you feel a sudden surge of determination-“Whether that turns out to be the case for my time in London too, I want to know more about it. It’s important that I do, so I can move on from it.” You look away from Mycroft at the same time that he swallows. He doesn’t want you to move on. “I have to go.”

“Don’t be silly F/N,” your father says, “You’ll be staying here.”

You shake your head, your eyes meeting Mycroft’s again. He’s looking at you with a terse sort of look about his face. You swallow. “I’ll just get some things.” He nods. 

Your mother spins around. “Don’t be ridiculous F/N.”

You've started to make your way to the stairs, but at her words you turn back and look at her. “I need to go Mother,” you tell her with assurance in your tone. “I’ve been trying to get better here, but I just can’t. Even when Greg and Sally came and told us some things it only filled in certain points for me and I know that I'm never going to get the answers I want staying here.” 

“You’re not ready,” she says, stepping closer towards you. 

You look off to the side, your face troubled. Thoughts flicker across your face. Finally you look back. Not to your mother this time, but to Mycroft. “You promise that you’ll look after me?” you ask. 

He steps past the threshold and draws his heels together, bowing his head. “I promise,” he utters with a grave look of genuineness in his eyes. 

You swallow. “You promise to bring me back as soon as I want to? No matter the time of day or night? You’ll let me return?”

Mycroft gazes at you for a moment. “Once more you have the sincerest of my promises,” Mycroft vows. “I shall do exactly as you wish.”

You study him for a moment, but even though you don’t know him that well the look in his blue eyes does seem to be true. “There,” you say, turning back to your mother, “Nothing to worry about. Even if I find out that I'm not ready I can come back as soon as I like.” You turn away and finally move upstairs to get your things. 

“So help me God, if you dare hurt her”- your mother says as soon as you’re out of earshot, pointing a finger at Mycroft. She breaks off to run a hand back through her hair. 

Again Mycroft steps forwards. “I promise you that I shall let no harm come to her. She shall have the utmost protection.” 

Your mother eyes him suspiciously, but does not say a further word. Your father takes over the conversation, interrogating Mycroft about his job. He doesn’t look too thrilled by the way that Mycroft’s answers are said in a vague, distracting manner. 

You pack quickly, putting things into a rucksack. You’re all too aware that if you delay your parents could use the time to persuade Mycroft to leave and give him no choice but to return to London without you. Your heart thumps, but your mind does not seem to understand the urgency of the situation. For rather than helping you pack it keeps pointing out things like: Is it really sensible for you to leave home? What if your mother’s right? What if you aren't ready? What if going back to London will only make things worse? Did something really bad happen when you were there before? Is that why your memory’s been affected so significantly? Because you’re trying to hide something from yourself? Then, as if to balance things out, your mind wonders suddenly where Mycroft gets his wellies from. Because you’re quite sure that you’ve never seen a more expensive looking pair in all your life. That silly point aside though you’re not really sure what spending a few days with him will be like. He says that you can trust him, says that he cares for you and keeps on being persistent that you’d slept together, but you don’t really know anything about him. What if you should just be staying away from him? But then again going with him, as you’ve previously concluded, might be the only way that you can get answers. Feeling like you have little choice you fling in a few more items of clothing into your bag, along with your notebook and pen, before you decide quickly that you’re done. You scan your room with your eyes, grab your bag and hurry downstairs. 

The situation you find yourself walking into when you push the door at the bottom of the stairs almost makes you do a double take. 

Mycroft is standing in between your parents, his head slightly ducked so that it doesn’t brush against the wooden beams in the cottage. Your father seems to be talking to him most seriously about something, gesturing with his hands. Whilst your mother, who looks very short compared to Mycroft, keeps peering up at him with a stern expression upon her face. Her arms are folded. 

As soon as they hear you closing the door to the stairs behind you however all their heads turn towards you. Mycroft and your father both look relieved, though you suspect for very different reasons, whilst your mother looks business-like. 

“If you’re going then you’ll have to take your medication with you,” she says disapprovingly, bustling over to one of the kitchen cupboards and putting your medication into a clear, transparent lunch box. 

She hands it to you, and when you pick up on the way that Mycroft’s looking rather unhappily at it, you tell him, “I get headaches.” You make to add the box to your bag. 

“Amongst other things,” your mother chimes in. She looks up at Mycroft again, “So if you’re having any second thoughts about all this Mr. Holmes then”- 

“No second thoughts,” Mycroft says, “Actually, we really should get going.”

You look at him curiously, before you close your bag up again and nod. Instead of putting it on your back though you just clutch at it with your hands. Everything seems to be happening really fast, but in a last ditch attempt to calm your mother you say, “I’ll be home soon.” You place a soothing hand on her arm. She looks in between Mycroft and you doubtfully. “You heard me,” you say, trying to stay upbeat and optimistic, “I promised that I’d be back and I will. I just need to do this, okay?” Your mother does not look satisfied. She lets out a bit of a sigh, before she nods. 

You move across to hug your father quickly. 

“Come home safe F/N,” he tells you, his fingers tightening upon your back. 

“I will,” you tell him. 

Mycroft and you make your way to the door. Once you move out of it the pair of you turn back to your parents who have followed you.

“I have given you my number,” Mycroft says to your parents, “You can call at any time and F/N will be able to use it to call you. She will be back with you safely soon.”

Your parents don’t say anything. They just nod. 

“Bye then,” you say rather awkwardly. 

Again they just nod in unison, before they close the door. You can’t know that as soon as it’s shut tears begin to flow down your mother’s cheeks and she lets out a cry of, “Why does our daughter have to be so reckless?” Your father comforts her, pulling her to his chest. But she only lets him do such a thing for a moment, before she breaks free from him and rushes to the kitchen window so that she can watch you. 

Mycroft and you make your way along the small pathway that leads to the back of the cottage, past the small square garden and out into the field beyond. You walk close together in a synchronized fashion, but still with a little distance between you. Mycroft keeps looking across at you and you keep doing the same to him. Everything about this situation makes you feel uneasy, you wish that you could have had answers without having to go back to London, but it’s when you see the sight of the proud, black helicopter standing in the field that you gulp, feel suddenly anxious and know that this is the last chance you have to back out. You could just stay here. You might never get the answers you want, but at least you wouldn't have to go through all this. Your fingers shift against your rucksack at the thought and your steps falter enough so that Mycroft becomes half a step in front of you. 

He turns back to you. “It’s all right, come.” His voice is soothing against your ears, like the steady drip of ink upon the page. Something about it calms you a little in spite of yourself. 

You nod and increase your pace. Mycroft looks satisfied. 

As you get closer to the helicopter you find that you have to narrow your eyes, whilst your hair blows about carelessly. 

Suddenly, when you’re almost right up in front of the black beast Mycroft puts his hand upon your midriff. You start and let out a breath. Something flashes before you for a moment, but you’re not sure what. 

“Forgive me my dear,” Mycroft says, raising his voice above the sound of the helicopter and withdrawing his hand. You notice that his hair is even more tousled from the helicopter’s fierce caress and that he seems to look at you hopefully for a moment, though you’re not sure why. He swallows and clears his throat. “I thought it might be prudent,” he says, “Of me to take your bag from you and put that inside first, before you clamber aboard.”

You brush the hair out of your eyes and gaze at him warily. Then, deciding to trust him with your bag, you hand it over to him. 

He gives you a smile, and your stomach does something funny and you inwardly tell yourself off because you need to be guarded and wary right now. You do not need to be noticing how Mycroft looks even more attractive up close with his beautiful coloured eyelashes, the depths of his blue eyes, and the delicate corner of his lip quirking up. You swallow and watch as he half-clambers up into the helicopter and pushes both your bag and his umbrella inside. 

He comes back down in the next moment and raises a quick hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, before he steps back and offers to help you aboard. 

You eye his outstretched hand-not the one that he’d just used to wipe sweat off with thank goodness-with the same mistrust that you’d eyed him with when he’d earlier volunteered to take your bag from you, taking in the paleness of his long fingers. He wriggles them suddenly, and, taken by surprise, you let out a sort of choked snort. Your eyes meet, and when you realize that your lips have twitched into a smile that seems to be making something in his blue eyes sparkle you convert it quickly into a frown. _Guarded,_ you tell yourself, that is what you must be. You press the gentlest of ladylike touches into his palm instead and allow him to steer you inside the helicopter. He puts his other hand upon your elbow to assist the process. He clambers up quickly after, and you find that you’ve only just moved aside when he’s beside you once more. 

You exchange more of a wary smile with him, before you allow him to help strap you in. His shirtsleeve brushes against your chest and you feel a sudden jolt. His eyes flick to yours. You swallow. _Shit,_ you’ve got enough complications right now as it is without- 

“Forgive me,” he says, eyeing you searchingly for a moment. You nod, feeling like you’re barely breathing, and he ducks his head, so that he can finish his administrations. 

You watch as he draws away so that he can fasten his own safety belt, before your heart does an odd little lurch again as he turns his attention back to you. 

“Right,” he says, something careful shining in his eyes, “You might want to hold onto something. The take off itself should not be hugely turbulent, but it does take a few turns to get used to.” He pauses and his tongue flicks out absent-mindedly to moisten his dry lips. “I should tell you however that you are perfectly safe. Flying us back to London today is a most experienced pilot by the name of Alfonso Bennett”-

“All right Miss?” Alfonso calls from the front. “I promise that I’ll get both Mr. Holmes and you back to London safely.”

You give a jerky sort of nod, still struggling with all of your emotions. 

Mycroft lets out a little chuckle. “All right then. Alfonso, if you please”- Alfonso nods and turns back around to face the front. “F/N, if you please,” Mycroft murmurs, taking your hand carefully with his and pressing it to the edge of the seat so that you can grip onto it. 

Your mind goes into shock for a moment at the feel of his cool fingers in between yours. But then he’s letting go and the helicopter’s beginning to lift off the ground. “M-Mycroft?” you stammer from where you’re hunched over like a cat on a boat, your fingers clawing into the fabric of the seat. 

“Yes?” he asks, facing dead ahead, and neither his expression nor tone give any indication of how his heart had jumped when you’d said his name. 

“I-I don’t like this, I-I really don’t like this, I-I think maybe I”- _maybe I should stay in Wales because this is already too much,_ your mind finishes when your mouth can’t. 

It’s barely a second, before he’s turning closer towards you, his body struggling to maneuver in the cramped space. His hand delicately goes back over yours. You let out another breath as the helicopter gives another lurch. Your body slides a little forwards and Mycroft’s hand tightens upon yours, whilst his other moves to your midriff to push you back. His head is close to your chest, almost brushing against it. He lets out a soft breath. You shiver at the sound of it. Slowly he lifts his head up, lets go of your midriff and carefully puts that hand around your waist instead. Your breaths fall out of you in a pant. You don’t like any of this at all. You don’t like what is happening to your mind or your body by being in this helicopter and by being so close to Mycroft. They seem to be at war with one another. Your head screams at you to get the hell out of there, whilst your body feels all tingly and tense and the fact that you feel like you can barely breathe is really not helping your situation. 

“Shh, shh,” Mycroft murmurs, seeing your panic and almost crooning the words into your ear. Your eyes widen and your heart gives another jolt. “There’s no need to make any rash decisions. You’re perfectly safe. _See?”_ he says, gesturing to the window. You turn your head to look out of it. “We’re already in the air.” You nod slowly as you turn your head to face the front again. Seeing that you’re still not happy Mycroft rubs at your hand a little and goes on, “Why don’t you tell me about something that you like hmm?” Your mind feels blank, confused by this sudden attempt at distraction. No doubt sensing such a thing as his eyes flicker across your face, Mycroft goes on, “What about the church? Gregory mentioned that you’ve been going. Does it help?”

You think about it for half a second, before your mouth opens and you get out automatically, “Yes, but only when it’s quiet.”

_“Oh?_ Have you ever been there when it’s just you?” Mycroft asks. 

“Nearly,” you respond, “The first time I went with my sister it wasn't a Sunday, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.” You don’t know how your mouth is able to make sentences when your brain feels like it’s at threat from short-circuiting. 

“Describe the church for me,” Mycroft murmurs. You glance sideways at him, wondering if it’s something that he honestly wants to hear about. He pulls his head back a little from you. His eyes shine with a soft curiosity. 

“Well”- you swallow, struggling to remember it all. 

“Close your eyes,” Mycroft suggests, and to your own surprise you find yourself obeying him instantly. “Now tell me,” Mycroft murmurs, his voice by your ear again, “What was it like on that day?”

You swallow. Suddenly the noise of the helicopter seems to fade until you just become aware of Mycroft’s soft breaths and the way that they tickle at your hair. In your mind’s eye blackness becomes images and the images become, “Pews on either side, stretching right back. A hard, dusty patterned floor. Particles of dust shining in the light. The sun’s rays pour in through the stained glass windows. Everything is majestic, silent and still.” You move a hand to your legs and it knocks a little against your knee. Your eyes open. 

“It sounds… _enticing,”_ Mycroft concludes. 

You let out a little sound of content, feeling suddenly glad for the way that he’d distracted you, though still uncomfortable about your close proximity. “It was,” you cast him a brief smile. You turn your head away and look out of the window trying to re-gain control of the situation. 

But Mycroft’s not done yet. “The vicar,” he murmurs, “Have you seen him much at all?” 

You look back at him, feeling curious about how much he seems to want to know. “A little,” you reply, before, when his gaze remains questioning you decide to be more honest and say, “He comes around once a week to try and find quotes in the Bible that might help me.”

Mycroft doesn’t look too happy about that, and he seems to think very hard for a moment about what he wants to say next, before he offers, “You’d say that he’s been supporting you then?” 

“I guess,” you shrug, “You could probably say that he’s been trying to at any rate.” You toy absent-mindedly at the crucifix that’s around your neck. “I'm not sure if I'm very religious on the whole.” You smile a little nervously at him.

Mycroft’s eyes dart down to the cross. “Yet you still wear that?” he questions. 

You let go of the crucifix automatically, before you tell him, “My sister gave it to me. Mother and her seem to want me to try again with the whole religion thing.”

“I would have thought that religion is either for someone or not,” Mycroft comments. 

You give him a little shrug. You tend to agree. You probably won’t be attending church regularly or praying any time soon. You realize that you’ve probably just been wearing the crucifix for an easier life. Like you’ve been doing a lot of things for lately. You look out of the window again. You can’t see much, just patches of gloomy sky through white and grey cloud. You shift across a bit more, straining against your seatbelt as you lean forwards. You think in the distance that you might be able to make out mountains. It’s oddly peaceful. You feel a pang. Church might be something that’s not for you on the whole, but there _is_ something about it that you miss. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “I told your parents that I’d protect you,” he says anxiously. 

You look back at him. For the first time you properly realize just how small the helicopter is. Mycroft has to have his head a little forward and ducked at all times, whilst his legs seem suddenly extraordinarily long. Being in the helicopter is in itself an act of contortion for him. Your eyes glance up, finally meeting his.

“What is it?” he asks. 

You swallow and wave a bit of a hand. “Sorry,” you say, shifting closer to him, “I guess although I'm not much of a churchgoer I can’t help but wish that there was somewhere quiet and peaceful in the city. I expect there’s always someone in the churches there, even when it’s not a Sunday.”

Mycroft’s expression becomes a suddenly thoughtful one. “I think I might be able to help you with that,” he says finally. 

You look at him curiously, but you don’t find out what he means until you’ve left the helicopter far behind, Mycroft’s swapped his wellingtons for a pair of black, smart shoes, you’ve settled in beside each other in a black car and pulled up alongside a large, white building whose gold sign proclaims, _‘The Diogenes Club.’_

“It’s a club for men,” Mycroft informs you, “But I should have enough influence to be able to get you in.”

You stare at him for a moment with a frown. Sally’s words come back to you about how Mycroft is a snake. Your general hesitation about this trip, and more than that, doing this trip with _him_ floods back to you. You’d started to feel more settled in the helicopter and in the car here, but now you feel nearly just as uncomfortable as when you’d started. 

Mycroft must sense that you’re feeling nervous again, for he makes to pat you reassuringly on the knee. Your frown deepens at the act and you move your legs away from him. 

Mycroft clears his throat and withdraws his hand. “Forgive me, I did not mean any harm by the gesture,” he says. 

“Still,” you say, clearing your own throat, “I don’t know you as much as you think you know me, so I’d appreciate it if you could keep your hands to yourself.” You feel an odd pang of regret hit you a moment later when you catch the brief flicker of something that makes its way across Mycroft’s face, before it becomes smooth once more. You don’t feel too bad on the whole about saying such a thing though, it is what you both want and feel comfortable with after all. What you feel is _best._

“Of course,” Mycroft says softly with a nod, looking oddly remorseful, before he adds, “Perhaps you could wait in the car for one moment? I just want to make sure that our journey inside will be a smooth one.”

You nod, and Mycroft only glances at you quickly again, before he swings himself out of the car. He takes his black umbrella with him.

You keep your head ducked for a moment once he’s gone, smoothing the creases out of your jeans and telling yourself that you’re going to be all right and that you can do this. But then you become aware of the fact that the driver’s watching you very intently indeed through the windscreen mirror, so you glance up. You see a glimpse of dark eyes and hair beneath a hat, before he looks away again. You avert your eyes, wondering if perhaps you’d just over-reacted and the driver hadn’t been looking at you all that studiously after all. But then you sense that he’s looking up at you again, so you glance in his direction. This time he doesn’t look away. 

“Excuse me, why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. 

The driver opens his mouth, but before he can reply Mycroft returns. 

“Is everything all right?” he asks once he’s opened the car door. He looks between the driver and you curiously. 

You wonder if you should be honest, but in the end you decide not to be. After all it’s like you said, you don’t know Mycroft that much either. “Yes,” you reply in a clipped tone. The driver nods an affirmative. 

Mycroft’s brow furrows. He doesn’t look convinced. But instead of pressing the matter more right then he simply clears his throat a little and says, “If you could follow me?”

You nod and grab your bag, before you shuffle across. Mycroft withdraws his head and steps back a little. As you clamber out of the car you get the sense that he would have quite liked to help you, but that, remembering your earlier words, he’d stopped himself from doing so. Your eyes lock and he nods, before he closes the car door behind you. He turns away toward the building and you make to follow him. You’re nearly at the door when you get an odd prickling sensation at the back of your neck. You swallow, before you look over your shoulder. The driver’s brown eyes are fixed on both Mycroft and you intently. 

“Are you sure that nothing happened, whilst I was gone?” Mycroft asks when he catches where your gaze has gone. You can’t know that he’s thinking he’ll never forgive himself or be able to face your parents again if anything has happened to you in those two minutes. 

You turn your head away. “Yes,” you say, avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. 

Mycroft sends a bit of a dark look to the driver, before he looks back at you calculatingly. “If he said anything, or did anything, then please feel free to”-

“It wasn't anything like that,” you interrupt him quickly; feeling an uncomfortable prickling again as you wonder what Mycroft would do if the driver _had_ said or done anything. If he can get a woman into a gentleman’s club then what else can he do? Exactly _how_ far does his influence extend? You shiver a little as you come out of your thought. Mycroft doesn’t look convinced. “He just kept looking at me,” you tell him. 

Again Mycroft’s gaze goes to the driver, before he stops and turns towards you as you both reach the door. “Now,” he says, again looking like he’d quite like to touch your arms in order to help stress his point if the way that his eyes keep flicking towards them are anything to go by. “I’ve cleared your access, but your presence will no doubt cause a bit of a stir. You’re to follow me closely. Avoid looking at anyone if you can, and don’t utter a single syllable until I do.” 

Again, just as you had at the beginning in the helicopter, you wish for a moment that you’d never left the countryside. It might not have given you the answers that you need, but everything had been safe there and not threatening. Whilst everything here seems to be the opposite. Still, you simply nod when Mycroft’s eyes press you for an answer. You've come too far to back out now. You’re going to get those answers whether it kills you. 

He nods and gives you a tight smile, looking relieved, before he turns around. 

You follow him through the doors, sticking close to him, but still being vigilant yourself. As you do so you take in the old furnishings and the general stillness about the place. You’re particularly surprised by how quiet it is when you come to a roomful of people, books, comfy looking armchairs and the odd newspaper. You look at the people, despite Mycroft’s request for you not to, and discover that the majority of them are old, white men in suits. Some of their eyes widen when they look up at you and one of them even mutters something underneath his breath. You get the odd urge to ask him what he’d just said, but you catch yourself at the last moment. Suddenly as you glimpse one of the armchairs that’s by the window you get a flash of something. You see an image of Mycroft sitting on it. It makes you feel excited. You've only pretty much arrived in London and already something that you’re sure would never have come back to you if you’d stayed in the countryside has presented itself to you. You want to share the moment with someone and you open your mouth, but, as if he’s read your mind, Mycroft casts you a stern look over his shoulder that silences you at once, before he raises a finger to his lips. You nod, remembering what he’d said earlier, but still feeling a little off-put by him nonetheless. 

He guides you out of the room and down a rather short and draughty hallway, before you enter another room. The room’s as old-fashioned in its furnishings as everywhere else, but completely devoid of people. 

You swallow. Mycroft closes the door behind you. “Forgive me,” he says, putting his umbrella in the holder that’s by the door, moving further into the room and taking his jacket off as he does so. Your heart skips a beat at the way that his white shirt and light-green waistcoat become even more revealed, as does the slender shape of his body. “But this is the only place in the entire club where speech is permitted. Of course if you want complete silence then I am happy to grant that too.” You nod, looking around rather nervously. “You remembered something?” Mycroft asks.

A little bit of the rush that you’d felt earlier comes back to you. “Yes,” you nod, before you ask, “Have I been here before? Only I had an image of you sitting in one of the armchairs.”

Mycroft looks suddenly uncomfortable. He moves across to put his jacket on the back of the chair that’s behind the dark, wooden desk on the right of the room. It doesn’t escape your notice either that he doesn’t look at you when he says, “Perhaps you’ve had occasion to walk outside of it and have peered in. But I highly doubt that you’ve ever been inside, what with this being, like I said before, a gentleman’s club and all.”

“Right, of course,” you say, and you can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Though what had you _really_ expected? Your mind chides you. For Mycroft to be really excited just because you’d remembered one smidgen of information? He doesn’t know what it’s like to have a void in his mind. To feel so frustrated because you can’t remember anything of significance. You let out a sigh. It immediately draws Mycroft’s attention to you. He gestures that you should take the seat that’s in front of the desk and you do so, putting your bag on the floor and watching as he settles himself down in the seat behind the desk. For a moment there’s an uncomfortable silence. 

“I’ve arranged for some tea to be brought to us. I would have also arranged some lunch, but I wasn't quite sure what you’d fancy,” Mycroft says, surveying you carefully. 

Your hands fidget together, and you duck your head, whilst you think about it. “A sandwich will be fine,” you settle on, looking back up at him. 

He frowns and shifts his position. “It’s a little cool out. If we’re going to be traipsing around town then perhaps something warmer would do. Soup perhaps? With some warm, buttery bread?”

You chew on your lip for a moment and look down at the edge of the desk. Your hand reaches towards it. You find that your finger begins to rub circles into its smooth, polished surface. Suddenly you don’t feel so certain about everything. Remembering Mycroft sitting in an armchair is one thing, but now that you’re on the verge of going out and possibly recalling more, you worry that a profounder memory might really affect you. What if all the answers you so desperately want end up hurting you? You've had enough of a shock just in discovering Mycroft outside your doorstep today and in coming back to London. You’re not sure how much more you can cope with. 

“Is something the matter?” Mycroft asks, his brow furrowed. You can’t know that he’s wondering whether the food he’d mentioned had triggered some upsetting memory, though he doesn’t know what on earth that could be. 

“Not exactly,” you say, stopping your rubbing motions and withdrawing your hand. You glance up at him uncertainly. 

Suddenly he seems to understand. “Perhaps, after all the travelling and such, you’d prefer to start the tour properly tomorrow?”

You nod, feeling grateful that he’s got it. 

There comes a knock on the door and a smartly dressed, middle-aged gentleman enters, his dark hair parted on one side. He brings the components of the tea up to the desk on a silver platter and then Mycroft goes ahead and orders the soup with warm bread anyway, despite the fact that you won’t be getting started on the tour today. 

You look at him curiously. 

He, in the middle of pouring the tea from the white, china teapot into two delicate cups of the same colour, senses your gaze and glances up at you momentarily. 

“I promised your parents that I’d look after you, and I'm sure that they would not be impressed with me if I sent you back malnourished.” The corner of your lip twitches upward, and, looking pleased by it, he goes back to sorting out the tea.

Once the tea’s made you find that it’s nice to have something to do and a reason not to talk. Not only that but you find that the warmth of the tea soothes you instantly, and that, to your surprise Mycroft seems to be aware of exactly how you like it. 

“As you’ll no doubt discover during your time here both my brother and I have an aptitude for working out things about other people,” Mycroft says in response to your unasked question. 

You’re not quite sure what to make of that. All you know is that it unnerves you and makes you wonder what exactly he knows about you, both through this ‘aptitude’ and otherwise. You sip at more of your tea, taking comfort from it. 

Your lunch arrives shortly after, and you find that there’s really something quite funny about Mycroft and you ripping off chunks of warm, sweet buttery bread and dipping it into the delicious, creamy tomato soup with basil in this most proper of settings. You feel like you’re doing something you shouldn't be, and after weeks of struggling and trying to abide by what others want you to do and be, you find your spirits lifting because of it. It takes you by surprise when a memory flashes back to you. A memory that you hadn’t forgotten, but which has been pushed to the back of your mind for some time considering everything. A memory of Alice and you sneaking downstairs in the cottage one night for a midnight feast. She’d been nine and you’d been seven. You’d both been in your pyjamas-pink with lurid cartoons of dogs and cats on-and as you remember both how happy you’d been and how well you’d gotten on then you find that a single tear slides down your face without you being able to help it. It drips into your soup. 

_“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, and you suddenly become aware of the fact that although his hand tilts his bread down towards his soup he’s stopped eating to focus purely on you. 

A bit of a gasp leaves your lips. “Sorry,” you murmur, making some of your bread crumble into the soup by pinching at it with your fingers, before you place it shakily down onto the plate. Mycroft pushes a clean handkerchief across to you. “Thank you,” you say, taking it from where he’s left it on the middle of the table gratefully. You use one side of it to wipe at your hands and the other to dab at your eyes. As you lower the handkerchief you notice that Mycroft’s looking at you concernedly. You crumple the tissue up on your lap. “I just recalled something to do with my sister. We sort of parted on bad terms, so”- you break off and offer him a shrug. 

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Mycroft murmurs. 

You nod. The rest of your meal is eaten in silence. You have no idea of what it’s about, but Mycroft looks like he’s thinking hard about something. Whilst all your mind seems to be able to dwell on is how you’d pushed your sister away. Suddenly you feel utterly miserable. 

“Excuse me,” Mycroft says at the end of the meal. You nod, and he leaves the room, taking out his mobile as he goes. 

You feel a little awkward about sitting there alone, but the middle-aged gentleman comes back to clear your lunch things, so it isn't too bad. 

When Mycroft returns he rummages in a wooden cabinet that’s a little way behind you for a moment, before he produces a battered looking jigsaw box. He carries it across and rests it down on the table with a small thump. “Perhaps if you wanted to do something that will still give you space to think and possibly remember something then this might do?” 

You peer at the rumpled blue box. It looks like its had much use over the years, though whether Mycroft’s ever used it before you can’t tell. The jigsaw is of Tower Bridge. You nod.

Looking satisfied Mycroft moves around to the other side of the desk again, before he takes the lid off the box with a flourish. Dust pours out of it like cloud from a volcano. Clearly though its been used much in the past it hasn’t been used by anyone lately. You both cough.

“Sorry my dear,” Mycroft says, once he’s recovered. 

You nod, swiping away the water that’s spilt from your eyes and simultaneously wondering about the term of endearment. Considering what you’d told Mycroft earlier about not touching you, should you be telling him that such terms are off the menu too? In the end you don’t say anything. You sense that he’d hardly meant any harm by it after all. 

The pieces of the jigsaw are kept in a small, see-through plastic bag, and Mycroft takes care as he pours them out onto the centre of the desk. 

“Right,” he says, settling in the chair that’s behind the desk. You watch as he begins to turn all the pieces so that they’re the right way up. After a moment’s hesitation you begin to copy him. He looks up at you approvingly. “I find that it’s of great use to do this first, before we work out how it all fits together.” Thinking that makes sense you nod. 

Despite the fact that Mycroft seemed to think that doing a jigsaw puzzle wouldn't take up much energy you soon find that attempting to re-construct Tower Bridge out of a thousand jigsaw pieces is no small feat. Mycroft and you find the corner pieces first, and though you both manage that relatively easily you soon find yourself frowning down at the pieces as you try to figure out, which ones come next. It doesn’t help either that although Mycroft helps out a little he seems to be taking the stance that on the whole this is largely your challenge to do. You soon become curious by the way that every now and again he takes a phone call. Each time he has to do so he politely excuses himself, before he goes off into the corner of the room. But that doesn’t stop you from hearing the occasional word, and when you hear the names of several foreign countries followed by bits and pieces of long-winded sounding policy sections, you become even more curious about what exactly it is that Mycroft does. In fact you find that your attention drifts from the jigsaw at an alarming rate, and when the middle-aged gentleman enters with some documents for Mycroft to sign you find that although you keep your gaze fixed on the jigsaw puzzle your attention has gone from it completely. 

Mycroft adds his signature to the bottom of the third page with a flourish, before he returns the documents to the man. As soon as he leaves Mycroft asks, “You have some questions?” His eyes flick up to you at the same time that you look at him completely wide-eyed. A thin-lipped smile emerges upon his face. Your mouth opens. “Ever since I took my first phone call the length of time it has taken you to add another piece to the puzzle has been steadily increasing, until, just now, you barely even pretended that you were working on it any more.”

Part of you feels astonished, whilst the other part of you feels that there is an odd sort of beauty in the way in which he’d worked it out. “I-I”- you begin, clearly at a loss for words. 

Mycroft’s thin-lipped smile grows. “I told you that I had an aptitude for working out things that others might not,” he says.

You nod slowly, before your eyes go to the edge of the desk. “In that case,” you say, as you begin to rub circles into the surface of it once more, “I was sort of wondering what exactly it is that you do for the government?”

“You remember that I work for the government?” Mycroft asks, and though his voice is largely guarded you don’t miss the chink of hopeful curiosity that’s there either. 

You feel a slight pang as you realize that you’re going to have to disappoint him. You look up at him. “Actually, it was just something that Greg mentioned when he was going through who everyone was and what they did.”

_“Ah,”_ Mycroft says, and you can’t know just how much his heart sinks at the revelation. His eyes go to the edge of the desk. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, “I can’t help but ask. Do you _truly_ not remember anything about me?” His eyes dart to yours. 

You hold each other’s gazes for one clear moment. You shake your head. “Sorry, but apart from that one memory of you sitting in an armchair that came back to me earlier I don’t remember a thing.”

“I see,” Mycroft murmurs, and he manages to cover up the disappointment that’s in his voice rather well. His eyes go back to the desk and he frowns at it as if it’s most troubling to him. 

You chew on your lip for a moment, watching him. “Your position?” you remind him, and you feel surprised yourself when your voice comes out so gentle. 

_“Hmm?”_ he looks back at you. 

You swallow. “You were going to tell me what exactly it is that you do for the government.”

“Oh, well, it’s just a minor position I'm afraid. Nothing terribly exciting,” he tells you with a bit of a tight smile, before he looks down again. 

You don’t believe him, but you decide to drop the matter for now. Leaning back in your chair you toy with one of the jigsaw pieces as you ask, “I don’t suppose that there’s Internet access in this place is there?” Mycroft looks at you. “It’s just that I could do with a break from the jigsaw puzzle and Greg also mentioned that John wrote some sort of, _blog?_ I wouldn't mind looking at it.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asks, “Only you’re mentioned in it, several times actually, and what with you not wanting to do the tour today”-

“I think that I’d just like to see a bit of it anyway. If it starts to make me feel weird then I can always stop.”

Mycroft still looks a little uncertain, but he gets his phone out of his pocket anyway. You watch, as, with his head bowed, he taps away at it for a moment, before he hands it to you. You let the jigsaw piece slide out of your hand and take it from him. “Here,” he murmurs, “I’ve put it on Dr. Watson’s very first blog post for you so that you can go through it chronologically. I'm afraid though that if it rings or buzzes I’ll have to take it from you.”

You nod, looking down at it gratefully. It could be minutes, or even an hour, but however long it is you spend it getting lost in John’s blog. Getting lost in the friendship between Sherlock and him. When you read about how it’s no use hiding anything from Sherlock you’re reminded strongly of Mycroft, though you have to laugh a bit when John reveals how ignorant Sherlock is about some things. You wonder suddenly if Mycroft’s unaware about anything. Mycroft looks up at your laughter and you read out the line where it says, _‘This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he genuinely seemed not to know the Earth goes around the Sun.’_

“Yes,” Mycroft says, an odd sort of fond smile coming across his face, “My brother can be spectacularly oblivious of some things. Not to mention tactless. A fact you’d do well to remember when you meet him again.”

Ignoring Mycroft’s worry about what might happen the next time Sherlock and you meet though you ask him without thinking, “Is there anything that _you’re_ ignorant of?” It’s only when Mycroft’s eyes flicker with something and he looks down that you suddenly realize what you’ve just said. “Sorry,” you mutter embarrassedly, “That was rather personal.”

Mycroft waves a hand, as if to dismiss your apology, but he does not say anything or attempt to answer your question. Feeling awkward you go back to John’s blog posts. You feel Mycroft’s eyes on you a moment later though and look up at him. As he struggles to give you a smile you can’t know that he’s thinking that he should really be trying to tell you that before you he was ignorant about what it felt like to truly love a non-family member. In the end though, after swallowing a couple of times he finds that he can’t get the words out. He makes a harrumphing noise, before he looks down again. 

You, sensing that he’d been on the verge of saying something important, look at him for another moment more, before you go back to John’s blog posts. You read through Sherlock and John’s first case eagerly and go back to the main page, keen to read more. John’s next blog post however, is, to your surprise, about you moving into 221C. He describes you as being funny and attractive, which makes you narrow your eyes until you’re almost squinting down at the screen, your face almost pressed against it.

“Sorry,” you say when you finally become aware that Mycroft’s looking at you with both a mixture of concern and intrigue about his face. “I just”-you point at the phone-“He described me as being _attractive.”_ Mycroft shoots you a bit of a knowing smile. You look down again, missing the way that Mycroft’s perceptive smile quickly turns into a sad one because he already has a sense of where this might be going. He wonders if he should stop you, but he knows that you wouldn't understand if he drew a halt to it now. You might even turn against him. As you read further you become even more astonished. For this person, which is apparently _you_ in the blog, feels more like a fictional character that you’re reading about for the first time than you. You certainly can’t reconcile the rather shy, vulnerable mess that you feel like at the moment with the confident, quip-making person in the blog. With this person who’s always keen to be involved with everything that’s going on and who seems like a real go-getter who has clearly taken control of her own life and managed to find her place in the world. You stop reading the post entitled, _‘The Blind Banker,’_ and let out a little breath. You feel sad and hugely inadequate.

“F/N,” comes Mycroft’s voice, and you suddenly realize that he’s standing next to you. “I'm going to take that from you now.” He prises the phone out of your hands. “I think that it’s starting to upset you.”

You nod and swipe at your watery eyes, whilst he pads around to sit back down on the other side of the desk. Your fingers tangle together. Through your blurry eyes they just look an unrecognisable mess. “How could you tell?” you ask him in a watery fashion, before you swipe at your eyes and look at him. 

Mycroft hesitates for a moment. “Your body was beginning to shake my dear.”

“Oh,” you swipe at your nose, feeling a little better in spite of yourself. “I guess it’s not all about being clever then?”

“No,” Mycroft confirms falteringly. 

“Sorry,” you say, thinking that you better explain. You nod at the phone, which he’s still clutching at. “It’s just that I don’t know how to be that kind of person any more.”

“I'm sure in time”-

You shake your head. “She seems like the sort of person who knows exactly what she wants. The sort of person who everyone likes. I'm just some great big disappointment who doesn’t have a clue of what they’re doing or what they’ll remember on a day-to-day basis,” you finish bitterly. You still have the handkerchief that Mycroft had given to you earlier, stuffed in your pocket, so you get that out, before you blow your nose on it loudly. 

Mycroft seems to be considering what he should say. “In my experience,” he eventually says, after dismissing the idea of telling you that you’re not a disappointment to him just in case you take it the wrong way. “No one is universally liked or disliked, and everyone feels uncertain at some stage.” You look at him. “I'm not saying that you weren’t liked. In fact you were loved very deeply by your friends here, as I'm sure you are still, _but”-_ he ponders. 

“I was different,” you finish for him. Mycroft nods, looking glad that you’ve grasped the concept. “Like you,” you say softly, because you’re starting to form that idea now. Starting to realize that perhaps in the past there had been this common link between you both, this feeling of being misunderstood by other people, that had led you to London I the first place, and to perhaps to your feelings growing for Mycroft. The two of you look at each other for a moment, and you feel a surge of emotion rise up inside you, before you break the eye contact, so that you can look down at the desk again. You’re starting to feel like you’re understanding things better now, starting to feel glad that you’ve come, and when your stomach rumbles you can’t help but smile. 

Mycroft must hear it too, for he says, “It’s just after five. I could get someone to bring us an early dinner, _or”-_ he pauses momentarily. You look up at him-“We could always go somewhere else to eat, we _have_ been cooped up”-

“I think I’d just like to stay here, if you don’t mind,” you get out hurriedly. 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft says, once again trying to cover up his disappointment through standing up and avoiding your eyes. 

He goes off to order what you’re not sure, and once more you’re left alone with your thoughts. You feel a little bit bad for refusing Mycroft’s offer just now, but you’ve come to feel quite safe in this room with its jigsaw puzzles and old smells, and you’re hardly in the mood to be amongst crowds or have people staring at you after all. 

Mycroft returns, and he only has time to carefully move the jigsaw puzzle aside, using his long fingers to make sure that it doesn’t break and ruin the small amount of progress that you’ve made on it, before the food arrives. It’s Chinese, and you eat it greedily, giggling a little as Mycroft struggles with his chopsticks. You might have lost four years worth of memories, but it turns out that you still know how to wield a pair. Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind that you find the whole thing very funny though. In fact, if anything, he only seems to encourage you to laugh by handling them in even sillier ways.

“Are you really sure that you can’t use them?” you laugh. Mycroft smiles and his fumbling fingers suddenly twist to hold the chopsticks with greater assurance. “You were just pretending?” you say in between still breathlessly laughing a little. 

“Just a little something to make you smile,” Mycroft murmurs, looking pleased as he looks down again, but you can’t help but feel suddenly oddly disappointed. You’re glad that he’d wanted to make you laugh, but you want to know who the _real_ Mycroft is, and how can you possibly do that if he keeps covering up the true strength of his abilities? 

Towards the end of the meal he gets a text. “Excuse me my dear,” he says, and you look at him a little seriously. “Anthea, my PA, is requesting my presence outside. I won’t be a moment.”

You nod, but you feel a little disappointed again, before you go back to finishing off your Chinese. 

You've just swallowed your second to last mouthful of it when you hear the sound of the door opening behind you. Assuming that it’s just Mycroft you don’t look around. 

“Look who my PA found,” comes the sound of Mycroft’s amused voice. 

It makes your heart jump and you look around curiously. Your mouth drops open when you see that Alice is standing there. 

_“F/N,”_ she smiles, looking a little awkward, though on the whole mostly happy to see you. 

You abandon your chopsticks and the rest of your dinner, before you stand up and barrel into her. “I'm so sorry,” you say as Mycroft leaves the room with a tight smile at you both, “I just”-

“Whoah, whoah,” Alice says, squeezing you a little as she pushes you back from her. “Calm down there little sis. It’s okay. I'm sorry too. I should have been more understanding. Have you remembered everything yet?”

You shake your head. “Not yet, that’s why I wanted to come back here.” You go to sit down again and Alice comes to stand by you, leaning against the desk. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Well, I got this sudden call just gone lunchtime from someone called Anthea who said that my little sister was in London and could do with seeing me. Next thing I knew there was this courier guy coming into the office and handing me a first-class train ticket. He told me that there was a car waiting for me outside to take me straight to the station, so, here I am.” Your mind goes back to the conversation you’d had with Mycroft at lunch and how he’d then gone to use the phone not long after. He must have arranged all this you realize. A faint smile glimmers across your face and the earlier disappointment you’d felt diminishes inside you. “Have you seen Sally and the others yet?” Alice asks, bringing you out of your thought. 

“No,” you say casually, “I’ll probably see some of them tomorrow, or the day after that,” you shrug. Seeing everyone again doesn’t seem suddenly as important as it once had. 

Instead of Alice going with the flow as you’d expected her to though, your words make her frown. She glances at the shut door, before she looks back at you. “He’s not trying to control you is he?” she asks in a low voice. 

“What?” you say, feeling taken aback, _“No”-_

“Look,” she says, ducking her head closer to yours and lowering her voice even more, “I'm glad that I got to come and see you again, and I know that, that’s probably thanks to Mycroft, so I'm grateful to him. It was kinda fun y’know, getting to ride first-class and all. It felt like I was in one of your stories”-your brow furrows. The stories you’d once wrote feel as unfamiliar to you now as does everything else-“But if he’s trying to keep you from your friends, or if he’s _tried_ anything”-

“He’s been fine,” you utter. Alice looks at you with raised eyebrows. _“Okay,”_ you relent, “A couple of times things have been awkward between us because he seems to know me more than I know him, and”-

“F/N, I think you slept together. I'm not asking if you can try and remember it or anything. But Mother said that when you were first in hospital and she spoke to him he was acting all strange and evasive, like he was making it really obvious that something had gone down between you.” Your face falls, more at Mycroft’s behaviour than anything else. Again you wonder what had exactly happened between you. Had you really slept together? Certain things-the way that Mycroft’s looked at you at certain points that day, the way he’d stayed close to you for a moment, before he’d pulled away when he’d been stopping you from moving about too much on the helicopter-suggest that there had been a certain level of intimacy between you before that you can’t remember. One that his mind has been going back to all day, but you still feel far from certain about such a thing. “I just want you to be sensible about this,” Alice says, taking you out of your thought once more and grasping at your hand. “You’re already on the back foot here because you’ve forgotten so much, and just because he’s showing that he can be nice sometimes I want you to remember that the only reason he’s probably agreed to show you around like this is because”-

“You think that he wants to spend another night with me?” you interrupt, your tone disapproving and your face even. You hope that’s not true. You hope that Mycroft’s brought you to London because he wants to help you like he’d told your parents, you hope that he’d wanted to make you smile before just to make you happy, not because he wants to get you in bed. You frown. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated? 

Alice lets go of your hand and runs her own back through her hair. “Maybe,” she shifts her position. “I don’t know. I mean”- she looks around momentarily, before her gaze falls back to you, “All I know is that before all this went down you hadn’t even mentioned Mycroft to me, or to Mother and Father, so he can’t have been that important to you”-you frown, whilst you think that there were probably numerous reasons for you not telling them-“Maybe all you had was a one-night stand. Maybe Mycroft’s confused and he’s trying to figure out how things are. But I don’t want you to get hurt because of him. You've been through enough lately, and I don’t want him to control you, or for him to just use you and make you think that he likes you in that way when all he’s doing is just trying to figure out his own shit.”

Beneath the pool of your own confusion something suddenly clicks into place. “Ryan hurt you didn't he?”

Alice swallows and glances away for a moment, looking regretful. “He cheated on me,” she announces to the room at large. 

“I'm sorry,” you say, because that is all you can think of.

“It’s fine,” she tosses her head back. “Anyway, this isn't about me,” she tells you, “I need to make sure that you’re safe and that you’ve got good influences in your life.”

“I'm fine,” you say, lying just as much as she had been. “Besides,” you shrug, “I’ll probably only be here a couple more days, so Mycroft won’t exactly have long to try anything.”

“Good,” she says, straightening up a little and looking relieved. “Anyway, if I were you I think I’d be rushing back,” she says, a smile toying about her face. 

_“Why?”_ you ask, feeling confused. 

“Well,” she says, again with that grin lurking about her lips, “I had a thing for Darren, but Mother told me that he’s totally got the hots for you little sister.” 

You pull a bit of a face. _“Darren?”_ you exclaim, feeling surprised and like that’s another thing you really don’t need in your life. 

“Mmmhmm,” Alice nods knowingly, “I spoke with her on the way down, said that I was coming to see you, and according to her Darren was very sad when he came around and found that you weren’t there.” You stare at her, still feeling a little nonplussed about this revelation. Clearly Alice had thought that you’d be a little more excited about the news, for she says, “F/N, come on, he’s dreamy”-

“You really think so?” you tilt your head on one side. You absent-mindedly start comparing Mycroft and Darren in your head. Mycroft’s auburn hair to Darren’s dark, Mycroft’s clear blue eyes to Darren’s muddy mixture of green and brown, Mycroft’s tall height to Darren’s slightly shorter stature…you hurriedly stop when you realize what it is that you’re doing. You shouldn't be thinking of either of them in that way right now. Your goal is not to get a boyfriend, but to find out who you really are. 

You come out of your thought to realize that Alice is in the middle of trying to convince you of Darren’s apparently obvious perfection. “…those dreamy, soft eyes, the way he flattens his hair down. Have you seen the way he walks? _So_ clumsy…” she trails off. Her hands are in a prayer position beneath her tilted chin and her eyes stare off into the distance lovingly. 

“You er, sound like you really like him, so if you”-

“No,” Alice waves a hand. “I mean I do of course,” she corrects herself when you look at her dubiously. “But the more I think about it the more I can’t help but think that he’d be perfect for you.” Again you look at her sceptically. “He’d really help you recover,” she persists. “He’d be there for you with an inspirational quote from the Bible whenever you were feeling down. He’d be there for you to hold your hand and support you whenever a memory came back”-

You raise a hand to stop her. She looks at you with her brow furrowed. Clearly she’d been ready to give you several more examples of how Darren would be there for you until the end of time or something. _“Listen,”_ you say, “I'm sure that would be nice and all, having someone be there and supporting me, whilst I'm going through all this. But I think that I’ve got enough to work on right now without adding the complications of a relationship to the mix”-

“But that makes it even _more_ perfect,” your sister interrupts you. “Darren wouldn't want to have sex with you until you were married, unlike _some_ people we know,” she glances pointedly at the door, “Which would give you plenty of time to work on”-

You let out a little groan. You can feel a headache coming on. “Leave Mycroft out of this please,” you tell her as you raise a hand to your temple. “Despite what you’ve told me I don’t know if anything happened between us or not.” 

Alice huffs out a breath. “All right, but I'm just saying, Darren would be so sweet and patient with you F/N. He’d automatically have our parents approval, which would be a bonus”-you suddenly think that you can’t ever see your parents approving of Mycroft if you were to have a relationship with him-“He’d never push you into anything or try to control you, and he most definitely would never stop you from trying to see your friends”-

“I told you,” you interrupt, “Mycroft hasn’t been”-

“All right, all right,” Alice says, raising her hands in a supplicating fashion. “I’ll go”-she moves forwards and kisses the top of your hair-“But you’ll think about what I said about everything? And be careful whilst you’re here and around”-she glances at the door again-“You-Know-Who?” she practically whispers as she looks back at you. 

You roll your eyes. She stares at you. “Yes,” you heave out, “Of course.”

Alice looks relieved and she tells you that she’ll see you again soon, before she leaves the room. 

You feel better from having seen her and from knowing that things are better between you now than they had been before. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a headache from all her talk about Mycroft and Darren. Your fingers reach instinctively for your bag. You pull it up onto your lap and tug your little lunch box of medicine out. You take the container of paracetamol out gratefully, pushing your bag back absent-mindedly to the floor. You stand up and unscrew the container’s lid off, before you tip one of the little white pills out into your hand. You cup your hand to your mouth, taking the pill, just as the door opens.

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft says, sounding concerned and hurrying up to you at once, “My dear you should really be taking water with”-

You wave a hand towards the container, attempting to explain to him that you’re fine, but you end up nearly choking on the pill that’s in your mouth in the process. You attempt to swallow it down, but you just end up coughing. You hunch over, blood flaring to your face. 

As soon as he realizes what’s going on Mycroft quickly leaves to fetch some water, before he pushes the plastic cup of it into your hand upon his return.

You take it from him gratefully, panting more than coughing now, and use it to get the pill down. 

Mycroft watches you, his face alert the whole time. “You’re all right?” he checks once you lower the cup, still breathing hard. His hand goes to your arm, before it jumps off. 

_“Yes,”_ you breathe, finding that his touch had been more of a comfort to you than an annoyance just now and feeling even more confused about everything as a result. 

He nods, getting his own breathing back under control. “Don’t ever try and take one without some water close by ever again. Do you hear me?”

“There wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn’t of surprised me,” you tell him reproachfully, laying the cup down on the desk. Really, you think that he’s over-reacting about all this. In the grand scheme of things taking paracetamol without water is hardly going to be one of your main concerns right now. 

“Don’t you realize what could have just happened?” he asks you, his voice strained, and he wishes that he could just shake you and make you realize how much he loves you. “If I hadn’t been here then”-

“Oh what? Now you’ve saved my life I’ll have to sleep with you, is that it?” you ask him, the words coming out both automatically and angrily. 

Mycroft looks like you’ve just slapped him. His face goes completely rigid, before he takes a step back from you. “I would never expect such a thing from you. I saved your life because I wanted to, because that’s what you _needed_ from me in that moment.” He pauses and eyes you icily. “Nonetheless, if you could find it in yourself to be a bit more grateful and a bit less suspicious then I’d be appreciative.” He picks the cup off the desk and stalks across the room to dispose of it. You look at him, feeling suddenly regretful. He turns towards you. His face is rigid and his eyes are cold. “Have I behaved inappropriately at any point towards you today?” he asks roughly, folding his arms. “The only time I have ever tried to touch you was purely to comfort you. As soon as you told me that you did not appreciate such a thing I desisted. Yes, I touched your arm just now, but you’ll have to forgive me. The heat of the moment, as they say, rather made me forget. I was a little too busy trying to make sure that you were still alive.” His voice is laced with bitter sarcasm. He turns his head away from you. 

Your shoulders sag. “Mycroft, I'm sorry,” you say, your voice full of remorse. He looks at you, his eyes cool, calculating. “I should never have said that. Please forgive me. I'm just tired. I’ve got a bit of a headache and I'm feeling confused about everything again because of it.” Confused about _us_ mainly, you don’t add. 

He swings his head away. “I thought you’d be grateful that I managed to get your sister here,” he says, looking back at you, before he brushes some dust off his waistcoat. 

“I _am,”_ you tell him, stepping forwards again with pleading eyes. He stops what he’s doing and looks at you. _“Truly_ I am,” you say as you continue forwards, “I really, _really_ am.” Mycroft looks unconvinced. “It was so nice for you to do all that for me, and you’ve been so kind and patient with me all day. I shouldn't forget that, no matter how I’m feeling.” You’re right in front of him now, and Mycroft finds that he’s barely breathing. You hesitate only a moment, before you stand on your tiptoes and lean up, placing your hands upon his shoulders. He tilts his chin so that he can look down at you, but other than that his face seems to be frozen on a cool expression. “Thank you,” you breathe, hugging him quickly, before you let go of him and draw back again. 

He clears his throat and nods, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and looking down, whilst his heart adjusts to a more normal pace. It had accelerated something silly when you’d just hugged him. “It’s getting late. Perhaps we should”-

“Yes, I forgot to ask,” you interrupt him, “What are we doing about where I'm going to stay? Have you booked me into a hotel or something?”

Mycroft looks suddenly awkward. _“Ah,”_ he says, keeping his eyes averted, before finally he looks back at you again when he confesses, “Actually, I’d rather thought that you could stay at mine”-

_“Oh,”_ you exclaim, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks when you remember what your sister had warned you of. 

“In one of the spare rooms of course,” Mycroft hurriedly elaborates. “I thought it would be easier this way. I wouldn't want you to have to pay any expense because of this visit.”

“That’s kind of you,” you say, deciding that you’re going to try and be optimistic about his intentions, though your mind tells you just as quickly that he could have just let you stay in 221C again. It is where you’d used to live after all. You swallow. The confusion that you’ve felt all throughout the day doesn’t seem to be stopping. 

“Shall we then?” Mycroft asks, gesturing to the door. 

“Um,” you say, feeling suddenly nervous. “I was wondering actually if, before we go, I might be able to phone my parents? They’ll be expecting to hear from me, and I should have probably phoned them when we first got here to say that we’d arrived.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says with a bow of his head, before he gets his phone out of his pocket. “Though I'm afraid that you’ll have to use this room. You won’t be able to talk in the rest, and it’s a bit chilly to do so outside.” You look at him. “I shall step outside of course to give you your privacy.” You nod and he hands you the phone, before he leaves after giving you one last tight smile. 

You bow your head and begin to tap in your parents phone number automatically, before you have a sudden thought and stop. Mycroft’s left you completely alone with his phone. It’s the first time all day that he’s done so. Surely this is a perfect opportunity to find out more about him? Especially since you’re so confused about him. Your heart begins to increase its pace and you swallow. Going through his messages though, can you really do that? More importantly though would it _right_ of you to do that? You know for a fact that your parents wouldn't approve of you doing such a thing no matter their thoughts on Mycroft. You can hear Alice on the other hand telling you that you’re on the back foot. Hear her telling you to make the most of this opportunity. Your fingers shift against the phone and you swallow again. You can’t dawdle for too long or Mycroft will be back and wondering what on earth you’re up to. Your heart flutters a little in anxiety at him discovering you going through his phone. He _has_ been kind to you, _but_ …your mind made up you delete the start that you’ve made on tapping in your parents’s phone number and go back to the menu. Then, after glancing quickly at the door, you go to the messages section. You probably don’t have long, so you just decide to look at the text messages that Mycroft has sent and received that day. There’s a couple this morning from when he must have been in the helicopter on the way to the cottage. They’re just to Anthea and about work. They don’t really make much sense to you, so aside from taking in the fact that Anthea wishes Mycroft ‘good luck,’ for today, which he doesn’t respond to, you move on from them quickly. There’s a bit of a gap after that until just after lunchtime when Mycroft had communicated with Sherlock. 

**How is she?** Sherlock had sent. 

**Fine,** Mycroft had responded. 

**Don’t be ridiculous Mycroft,** Sherlock had sent waspishly back. 

Mycroft hadn’t responded to that, but you get the feeling that he’d rung Sherlock shortly after due to the fact that there are no more messages from his little brother. Anthea had sent Mycroft one later that day of course, telling him that she was outside. Whilst during the talk that you’d had with Alice Mycroft had received a text off Greg that said: **If what Sherlock’s telling me is true and F/N’s back in the area then I hope you realize that Sally’s going to be very pissed off if she doesn’t get to see her.** You snort. **Take care of her Mycroft,** is what Greg had signed off with. 

Mycroft had not responded, and you’re just seeing if there’s any more text messages when a clipped voice asks, “Having fun?”

A whoosh of breath escapes you and you look up. Mycroft’s leaning against the door frame. His arms are folded, ankles are crossed and his eyebrows are raised. You hadn’t even heard him come in. You swallow and your breath comes out all trembly as you say, “I-I”-

“If you’d finished your phone call to your parents then you should have come to fetch me,” he says coolly, unfolding his arms and coming towards you. 

“I-I didn't mean”-

“Yet you still did it,” Mycroft cuts you off as he stops in front of you. His eyes are cold and they chink with ice. He stretches out a hand. “I think I’ll take that back now.”

You fumble and hesitate, before you hold the phone to your chest. “I never got around to ringing them.”

A muscle twitches in Mycroft’s jaw and you wonder if you’ve gone too far. “Then ring them,” he tells you, “But I'm sorry to say that you’ve lost your right to privacy.” With that he flounces around to the other side of the desk, before he sits down on the chair there promptly. 

You can feel your legs shaking from the anger that’s radiating from him. You feel teary and upset. You sink down into the chair opposite him and keep your eyes fixed on the phone, before you glance up at him. “I-I”-

“You have ten minutes,” he informs you, meeting your gaze steadily, before he becomes engrossed in looking at the edge of the desk again. 

You nod clumsily and swallow, before you tap out your parents phone number. Mycroft clears his throat as you lift the phone to your ear and leans back, his eyes upon you calculatingly. Your eyes dart to him nervously, before they look away again. Is he going to watch you like this the whole time? -

“Hello?” you hear your mother’s voice say. 

“Hi,” you mutter, trying to avoid Mycroft’s gaze by looking down. Your hand shifts against the fabric of your jeans anxiously. 

“Oh F/N, it’s about time dear,” she exclaims, “If I hadn’t had your sister on the phone then I would never have”-

“Yes, sorry,” you interrupt her awkwardly, “I know that I should have rang before, I’ve just-sort of”-you find your eyes glancing up at Mycroft again. He stares down at you coolly with tight lips-“Been busy,” you swallow. “Adjusting to London again.”

“F/N? Are you all right? You sound a little flustered.”

Again you glance nervously up at Mycroft, before you duck your head even further down. “I'm fine Mother. Its just been a busy day. You know how tired I get”-right on cue you break off to let out a yawn. You miss how something flickers beneath Mycroft’s eyes as you do so. 

“But you’re sure that’s all it is? That man hasn’t upset you has he?” Mother asks, and her tone becomes almost icy as she asks the second question. 

“No, no, he’s been fine Mother,” you’re quick to say. “In fact,” you go on, clearing your throat a little and meeting Mycroft’s gaze, “He’s been more than fine. He’s been very patient and understanding with me. I'm very grateful to him. It’s me whose messed things up by being difficult and awkward, as _usual…”_ you trail off bitterly. Mycroft looks away. You hope that he understands how very sorry you are. 

“Well, it’s bound to be unsettling for you. That’s why I didn't want you to go. But now that you’re there all I can say is don’t push yourself too hard, and if you want to come home at any time then make sure you say so. If that man starts treating you differently then try and get in touch with us. Call Sally or one of the other police officers if you can’t. We’ll work out another way for you to come home.”

Starting to feel a little awkward with the way that the conversation is going you avoid Mycroft again as he looks at you and say, “Yes, of course”-

“Speaking about you coming home I really think you should make more effort with Darren when you do F/N. He’s a lovely man, and if you were to just become a bit more understanding about how difficult it is for”-

“Listen Mother, I'm going to have to go. I'm using Mycroft’s phone after all. Say hi to Father for me will you? Okay, bye then,” you disconnect the call quickly. 

You don’t hear how your mother finishes, “People on the other side.”

Instead you swallow, before you hand the phone back to Mycroft who almost snatches it from you. 

“Right, if you’re finished,” he says briskly, “Then I’ll arrange for a car to be brought around.” He begins to tap away quickly at his phone. 

You watch him feeling awkward. “Mycroft I said I'm”-

He raises a hand to stop you without even looking up. 

“You don’t understand how difficult this is for me!” you snap at him, feeling frustrated that he won’t even let you try and explain. 

“How difficult this is for _you?”_ Mycroft questions coolly, quirking his eyebrow up as he looks at you. 

“Yes,” you swallow, before you pant, “How difficult it is to wake up one day and have all these people who say that they know you and who expect all these things that you can’t give them, because you hardly know who _you_ are any more, let alone who any one else is. You don’t know what it’s like to have these holes in your mind as if someone has shot the information right out!” 

Mycroft draws himself up and looks down at you haughtily. “Well, I'm sorry to tell you this but you might like to know that it’s just as difficult when someone who should trust me outright deems it necessary to go through my phone, and who then attempts to flatter me and say how very sorry they are when it is clear to me that if the chance arose again then they’d do exactly the same thing.” 

You huff out a breath, but there’s nothing that you can say. Every word he’s just said is true. As much as you hate what the outcome’s become you _would_ do it again. 

Mycroft’s phone buzzes, creating further distance between you. “The car’s outside,” he says, pushing his phone back into his pocket in a business-like manner, before he stands and slips back on the jacket he’d taken off so long ago. 

You swallow; gather your things up, stuff your medicine back into your bag as you do so and follow him outside. 

It’s dark now, not to mention cold. A shiver runs through you. The leaves that are clutching onto the few scattered trees blow about in the breeze. 

Mycroft opens the car door and allows you in first, before he joins you. He props his umbrella up against the seat in front of him, before he tells his driver-a different one from earlier thank God-where to go. A dreadful silence follows, one where you can feel all this tense energy radiating between you. 

“I felt trapped,” you utter. The driver’s eyes flick up to the windscreen mirror’s to look at you. Mycroft clears his throat to get the driver to look away again. Other than that the eldest Holmes brother doesn’t respond. You turn your head sideways to look at him. “That’s why I did what I did. I was trapped. I felt like I had no other choice. I had to do it to protect myself,” you blurt out, desperate to get him to try and understand. 

Mycroft eyes the driver for a moment. Thankfully the man’s eyes are on the road. Mycroft’s hands brush absent-mindedly against his trousers. “I can assure you that what you did was completely unnecessary,” he tells you. 

Your eyes dart to the driver’s quickly, before they go back to Mycroft’s again. “I know, I know that now,” you say, grasping at his hand suddenly with yours, “But how was I supposed to know that _before?”_

Mycroft starts, and the back of his hand comes up against your palm as he does so. You swallow and look down. Your hand looks tiny upon his. His fingers are both longer and wider than yours. Mycroft looks down too, before he pulls his hand away. “By trusting me. But since you don’t then I’d rather that you kept your hands to yourself,” he huffs, shifting his position and adjusting the collar of his jacket. 

Your heart sinks. “Mycroft please don’t be”-

_“Please,”_ Mycroft says, raising his hand, “Save yourself the embarrassment of speech.”

You swallow, feeling adequately told off. You spend the rest of the journey gazing out of the window, watching how the street lamps bring circular flashes of hedgerows, people and houses. You try and keep your mind distracted, taking in cars and number plates, filling your mind up with information and trying to test yourself to prove that you can remember it all, but all you seem able to go back to time after time is how disappointed you feel about the way that things have progressed between Mycroft and you. You sniff and a single tear of remorse trickles out of your eye. You've messed everything up. You swipe it away quickly, not seeing the look of grudging, thoughtful concern that Mycroft gives you as you do so. 

Finally the car comes to a stop by a pavement. Mycroft begins to open the door, but you find yourself suddenly blurting out, “I could stay at a hotel”-

“Yes, well, we’re here now,” he mutters ruefully, before he slips out of the car, taking his umbrella with him. He leaves the car door open for you, but doesn’t look back. Instead you watch as his figure strides off around the corner, disappearing into a driveway. 

You hesitate a moment. 

“You best do as he wants Miss,” the driver says in a rather croaky but kind voice. You look at him. He must be in his sixties. Not old then by any means, but his skin is worn and weather-beaten. His lips are cracked. Still, as he gives you a firm, but somehow gentle smile, you return it. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, hoping that you’ll see him again sometime, before you clutch at your bag and hurry out after Mycroft. 

You close the car door and then totter into the driveway, slowing down a little when you see the majestic, two-storey red brick house. Shrubs stand either side of the door, which Mycroft is nearly at. You think that he must have heard you, for he quickens his pace and your heart sinks a bit more. 

Still, you’re not ready to give up on him just yet. “Is this yours?” you call after him, your fingers nearly losing their grip on your bag as you hurry and focus your attention largely on Mycroft and the house instead of where you’re going. You notice that the branches of a tree that’s on the left reach towards the property. “It’s very nice,” you attempt again when Mycroft doesn’t initially respond. 

Mycroft’s heart skips a beat when he hears you say that, and he slows down automatically as he recalls how you’d said those exact words the first time you’d been here. They make him feel both happy _and_ sad. A pang hits his chest as he thinks that for you this might as well _be_ the very first time. “Yes, yes it is,” he murmurs a little absent-mindedly. The words drift back to you in the cool air.

He unlocks the door when he comes to it, but rather than going inside he hesitates and waits for you to catch up with him. 

You peer up at him with a questioning nervousness about your face once you do, your cheeks slightly flushed and your breaths coming out in pants. 

He looks down. Then, sensing your anxiety and wanting to make you feel better in spite of himself, he quips, “Welcome to Hotel Holmes.”

Taken by surprise by his sudden warmer attitude to you a smile falls upon your face immediately. 

Mycroft clears his throat and looks away, pushing the door open. 

You get the oddest sense when you step inside that you’ve been there before as Mycroft switches the light on and you see the narrow hallway. A flash of the exact same image jumps up before your eyes, making you scrunch your face up. You stumble a little off to the side and raise your hand up instinctively. 

Mycroft, who’d been bending over to put his umbrella into the holder on the left, starts a little when he comes to feel the sudden press of your hand against his upper arm. He drops the umbrella into place and then looks around. As he does so your hand shifts and you end up falling sideways against his chest. He holds you there for a moment, whilst you pant, seemingly in a daze. He is aware of his own heart racing as much as he is aware of how you’re breathing heavily against him. 

Suddenly you seem to become aware of what position you’re in. You pull away, staggering back until you come to be right up against the wall. Your hands splay against it and your cheeks flush with colour, whilst you stare up at him in wide-eyed panic. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do. You seem so alarmed by everything. “Perhaps a cup of tea would help settle you in?” he suggests. 

You nod, before you rapidly swallow twice. He casts you a cautious glance, before he makes to lead the way down the hallway. The soft sound of movement behind him tells him that you’re following him. 

You feel keen to get out of the hallway because everything seems suddenly too close and suffocating, but as soon as you’re nearly there, Mycroft switches the kitchen light on and you see a glimpse of the black diamond pattern on the white floor your head begins to spin and your vision goes blurry again. You let out a bit of a gasp as the images in your head steady enough for you to be able to see a f/c and gold masquerade mask upon the floor. Before you can even become properly aware of it though your hand is flinging out, you’re dropping your bag and you’re crumpling onto the side of the last part of the hallway. You hear something that might be Mycroft letting out a gasp of exclamation, before suddenly he’s in front of you once more. You can make out the way that his blue eyes are full of concern for you and see the way that his mouth is moving steadily, but you can’t hear what he’s saying. You try to keep your head upright and fix on him, but it seems determined to flop onto its side. You hear Mycroft saying something about you fainting and then you feel him tugging your body to his, before he makes to guide you slowly forward. His head is almost down upon your shoulder, whilst yours is almost pressed into his chest. Bursts of breath leave you in a panic as you struggle to breathe. You sense that he’s muttering something to you all the while to try and calm you down, but again it doesn’t get through to you. Your vision is just a mess of black and white lines amongst reality. Mycroft stops you once you reach the kitchen table and tugs the chair out with his foot, before he pushes you down so that you’re sitting sideways on it. 

_“There,”_ he pants as reality comes bursting back to you in full colour. You realize that you’re sat by a light brown wooden table on a chair of the same colour. Mycroft keeps his face level with yours. 

“We _did_ sleep together didn't we?” you blurt out, feeling a hundred per cent certain of the thing now. 

Mycroft chews on his lip and something flickers in his blue eyes for a moment as if he’s not quite sure whether to be honest with you or not. You can’t know that he’ s worried if he does then it will only make your physical condition worsen. In the end he just straightens up and goes across to the left to make some tea instead. 

You swallow, determined to get him to respond. “I’ve been here before, I know I have. I saw a mask on the floor. I know it was mine.”

Seeing that there’s no point in trying to hide it from you now Mycroft turns his head ever so slightly from where he’s standing sideways to you as he puts two teabags into two cups on the dark kitchen counter and murmurs, “Yes, we slept together.” He glances at you quickly. Blue eyes meet e/c ones. 

You nod, feeling vindicated by his words. Still, that doesn’t mean that there’s not a ton of other questions now swirling about your brain as if they’re strips of paper blowing about in the air. You straighten up a little as one of your arms rests on the table. You snatch one of the questions out of the ambiguity of your mind. “Were we drunk?” you ask him. 

Mycroft stiffens. The kettle boils and he sets to work pouring some hot water over the tea bags, before he replies, “No,” curtly. 

You scrutinize him, taking in the way that he’s not looking at you. “Are you sure?” you ask, standing up. 

He lets out a bit of an impatient breath, before he meets your gaze. “We’d had a little to drink,” he confirms, “But we were far from drunk I assure you. We both consented to it. I would have not taken advantage of you. I know”-he pauses, considering his words-“That it seems to you now that you do not know me. That I am foreign to you. But please, knowing me as briefly as you do, surely you can tell that I am not the sort of person to get a woman drunk and then bring them home to take advantage of them?”

You fold your arms and nod, looking at him. His blue eyes are on you pleadingly and his lips are slightly parted. “You seem sensible enough,” you acknowledge, giving him that. 

Mycroft lets out a little breath. He seems relieved by your response. He finishes making the tea, before he makes his way over to you. You sit down opposite one another. 

“The ball was a masquerade one. It happened after we decided to leave it.” 

“But we weren’t dating or anything?” you ask, pulling a bit of a face and still struggling to understand how such a thing could have happened in the first place.

“No,” Mycroft confirms with a little shake of his head. 

“I’d never come here before that?” you check. Again Mycroft shakes his head. “Then I can’t really see how”-

“I think,” Mycroft cuts you off, staring down into his tea. You’re surprised to see that there’s a light pink flush on his face. “That when it came down to it, although that’s not something either of us would usually do”-he glances up at you quickly. Your brow is furrowed and your headache burns worse than ever, any effects of the medicine you’d had earlier being undone by all this new information-“It was something that we’d both wanted for a very long time.”

You look at him steadily. You don’t know what to make of what he’s just told you, and you can’t decide whether he just finds it horrendously embarrassing to talk about such matters or whether he’s hiding something more from you. You think over what you want to ask next. “What was I wearing?” you enquire, opting for the least controversial of questions because you’re not quite sure if you can handle anything more than that right now. 

Mycroft chews on his lip for a moment. “It was a f/c dress,” he gets out, “It had f/c feathers all around the bottom of it. It looked incredibly glamorous and suited you well,” he offers you a tight smile. 

You frown. Again the description of the dress he’s just given you isn't something that you can relate to the person that you are now, but rather to this _‘other.’_ “I can’t imagine wearing something like that,” you murmur with a quiet sadness. Mycroft looks at you sympathetically. You get the sudden sense that there might be something painful for him about the memory too, but you have to push, “It wasn't just to do with what we were wearing though was it? There was more to it than just the heat of the moment? It _meant_ something?”-

Mycroft feels a pang in his heart. “Yes,” he waves a hand, “Like I said, it was something that had been building between us for a while. Though of course”-he corrects himself-“You looked astonishingly beautiful in it. I was rather worried about breaking it when I-well-when _we”-_ he breaks off, and the dusting of pink on his cheeks becomes even profounder. 

You swallow and look around. You’re curious about another thing, but you’re not sure if you should ask. “Where,” you ask, deciding to be brave, “Where did it happen?”

“Just upstairs,” he replies, glancing at you quickly, before he looks down again. “It was-it was very proper F/N. I would never have”-

“I know,” you say, and although the words tumble out of you, you feel sure that they’re true. Your eyes meet and you feel suddenly that your cheeks must be as warm as his. Mycroft smiles tentatively at you. You let out a little nervous laugh, your hand curling around the base of the teacup. “It’s a little odd y’know?” you look at him, squinting a little. “To be told all this over a cup of tea and not remember any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs, sipping at his tea. “Well, maybe I _don’t,”_ he says as he lifts his head and lowers the tea cup back to the table, remembering about your words from earlier. 

“Sorry,” you swallow, and you have the oddest urge to take his hand again. You don’t. 

Mycroft shakes his head, waving your apology to one side. “I was hardly being the most hospitable, besides”-he shrugs-“I dare say that you were right. I cannot hope to possibly understand what you’re going through right now.”

You swallow, feeling bad again for your earlier words. You look down for a moment, before you look back up at him again. “Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re right,” you murmur, “I don’t know you very well. The way you described it earlier, _‘foreign,’_ that was a good-well, that was a good way of putting it. But I guess, what I'm trying to say is that, although I _don’t_ know you very well the bits of you that I’ve seen today, well, on the whole you seem very”-you struggle to find the right word- _“Honourable._ Yes, decent and honourable,” you settle on. 

“I'm glad that you think so,” Mycroft murmurs, looking both a little touched and thoughtful as he looks down again. 

You smile and finish your tea, feeling a little bit better. “I, um, I think I’d quite like to go to bed now. If you could be so kind as to show me where?”- you break off deliberately. 

“Of course,” Mycroft murmurs, finishing the rest of his tea off quickly, before he gets to his feet. 

You smile gratefully at him, before you follow him back down the narrow hallway, picking up the bag, which you’d dropped earlier on as you go. Mycroft glances back at you calculatingly when you come to the bottom of the stairs, before he leads you up those too. Your heart rate suddenly increases. You might not get another flashback, but your skin prickles and you get the feeling that you’d followed him up these stairs before, when you’d-

Mycroft stops suddenly on the landing and you nearly crash into the back of him. You lean back, nearly losing your balance. He whirls around quickly and takes your hand with his. “Sorry, I”-

You let out a breath. You get the sense that he is genuinely upset and sorry that he’d nearly caused you to fall, not to mention annoyed with himself. You swallow. “It’s all right.” 

He swallows. An energy that’s full of something else, which you’re not quite sure about, sizzles in the air between you when he looks at you with a smile that’s both serious and full of another thing entirely as he gently leads you up the last step. Your bodies bump against each other’s and you let out a breath as you see the depth of his blue eyes so close. Your other hand goes to his shoulder. Mycroft looks at you in that same fashion again and lets go of your hand. He clears his throat and takes a step back from you, before he turns around without another word. You swallow and try to push away your worries and fears about what on earth’s happening to you, before you follow after him. 

Mycroft leads you to a room that’s off to the right. You think at first that it must be the room you’re to stay in, but when he holds the door open he murmurs, “It was in here just in case you’re wondering”-he swallows-“Where we”-he breaks off. 

You duck underneath his arm and peer in a little more. The room is small, intimate. A dainty chandelier hangs over a bed that has several cushions upon it. You stare at it for an age, tilting your head and trying to picture the scene. You try and picture Mycroft and you falling on top of it. You scrunch your face up. Had you been completely undressed or only partly so at that point? Had it been slow or fast? What does Mycroft even look like naked? You find your face smoothing out and your gaze going back to him instinctively. 

“It’s all right,” he says, his eyes staring at you gently as he no doubt realizes that nothing is coming back to you. 

You frown a little because it isn't. Suddenly you wish that you could remember. Remember everything that had ever happened between you. 

You both draw back slowly. He closes the door gently. 

He leads you to a room that’s on the left. You both go properly inside this one, and you notice that it’s similarly decorated to the first, sparsely but tastefully furnished with an almost medieval feel to it. The curtains are still open and Mycroft goes across to close them, whilst you dump your bag on top of the plush looking double bed. This one has cushions on it too. 

Mycroft turns around with a clearing of his throat. “There should be enough space in the wardrobe for you,” he informs you. 

“Thanks,” you tell him, tangling your hands together awkwardly in front of you. 

“Hmm,” Mycroft looks around the room with a thoughtful expression about his face. He seems to be considering whether everything’s suitable and you find yourself smiling. “It’s a little cold. I could always make you a hot water bottle?” he says, finally looking back at you. 

“Oh no,” you react automatically, your fingers fidgeting together again, before you carry on without thinking, “The bed looks warm enough.” You flush and wince once you realize what you’ve just said. Why can’t you be cool and calm? You’re sure the ‘you’ Mycroft had once known would never have said anything so silly. You duck your head, feeling irritated with yourself. You miss the way that Mycroft looks at you with a smile that’s both considering and amused. 

“I’ll be going back downstairs for a little while, but other than that I’ll just be across the hallway, so, if you should need me”- he breaks off. 

You nod. He gives you another quick smile, before he turns around. _“Mycroft?”_ you call after him. 

“Yes?” he utters, turning back to you. 

“Thank you, for-for doing this, letting me stay here and showing me around and everything. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says, bowing his head to you, before he turns around and leaves the room. 

You let out a soft sigh and quickly begin to unpack your things. You don’t take much out, just the clothes that you expect you’ll be wearing tomorrow and the day after that. You hang them up mostly silently, with only the odd clink or rustle of fabric sounding in the air, before you change into your pyjamas. It’s not long, before you’re slipping beneath the covers.

You’re tired, but confused too by the way that Mycroft’s been making you feel such a mixture of things all day. One minute you’re trying to be guarded and cautious around him, the next you’re openly blushing and feeling awkward about this past history that you’ve got between you that only he can remember, or feeling an odd twinge of something whenever he’d touched you, or even worse getting more upset than you feel sure the situation had deserved when things had started to go wrong. You can’t get a handle on him or who he is and how you’re supposed to feel around him, and the fact that as soon as you start to feel more comfortable something seems to happen to disrupt all that isn't helping either. You huff out a breath as all these things swirl around inside you, before you get up to take your notebook out of your bag. Perhaps having a mini-writing session, before you try and get some sleep will help sort this mess out. 

Downstairs Mycroft sits on the brown leather settee in the living room, his back against a plush white cushion as he nurses a glass of scotch in between his hands. As he sits there with a patterned rug stretched out in front of him and a fire burning in the small cream and white fireplace he realizes suddenly what a long day its been and how much energy he’s used up. A headache that’s caused by tiredness burns just beneath his eyes, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety, which flares up inside his mind. For the fact is that he hasn’t been able to help but wonder at points during the day, and in particular from the point where your mother had got your medicine out of the cupboard, whether he’s done the right thing in bringing you here. He hadn’t expected it to be an easy visit, but neither had he expected your physical and mental reactions to things to be quite so unpredictable. Is he really up to taking care of you when you’re like this? Might he not be better off calling or texting Gregory and leaving you in his care instead? Gregory would probably know what to say, and you’d probably end up feeling a lot more relaxed with him. But in the end, although he takes his phone out of his pocket and stares at it consideringly he just can’t. He just can’t pass you on and turn his back on you so matter-of-factly; no matter how much he’s scared by what might be to come and how incapable he feels. No matter how much he’s scared that you might remember Sherlock’s fall and his own cruel treatment of you. No matter how much he’s scared of what you’ll think of him. He slips his phone back into his pocket and sighs, raking one hand through his hair. He just hopes that if you remember then you won’t turn against him or that if you do he’ll find a way to bring you back and make you see what the actual reality is. 

_“Mycroft?”_ the sound of your soft voice comes. 

Mycroft’s heart gives a jolt and his fingers tighten around his glass of scotch. He looks up to see that you’re padding a little nervously into the room. You've got your arms folded protectively across your chest and all that you’re wearing is a pair of dark brown pyjamas. Mycroft places his glass down on the carpeted floor and stands up. _“F/N,”_ he breathes, “Is everything”-

“I-I’ve been trying, but I just can’t seem to get off. I don’t suppose you have anything that I could take, o-or any techniques that might help me do you?” you look pretty desperate. “I'm really tired.” 

Mycroft can’t know that after writing several things down about him in your notebook you’d tried to get to sleep, but your mind had still been full of him. _Or_ how you’d tried to resist coming downstairs, but in the end you hadn’t been able to. Instead he feels both concern and pity for you. But, as usual, there’s worry there too. “You shouldn't be walking around like that, you’ll get a chill.”

“I-I”- you utter. Something crumples on your face. 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. He can tell that you’re regretting coming downstairs and that you think he’s telling you off. _See?_ A voice in his head tells him. This is why he should be letting someone else take care of you. “I'm only telling you that because I care,” he tells you gruffly, abandoning his scotch and striding past you. Your face brightens a little. “Come, I’ve got something that will get you off much better than any more pills or anything else. In any case,” he goes on, “You really shouldn't be taking anything else after you had that paracetamol earlier,” he says, as you both make your way upstairs again. You’re about to open your mouth to protest when Mycroft-with one hand sliding up the banister-looks back over his shoulder at you, “I hope you haven’t broken such rules previously. It’s important that you stick to them F/N. They’re there for a reason.”

He faces the front again and you roll your eyes at him. “Yeah,” you mutter, without suddenly being able to help it, “Like it’s important that you don’t work on days off too.”

Mycroft’s heart jolts in pleasure at your words and his lip twitches. “I won’t be tolerating any cheek from you either,” he says, turning back to you once he reaches the landing and tapping you on the nose. “You can get yourself off if you keep making remarks like that,” he threatens. You smile and mimic zipping your mouth shut. He lets out a little amused chuckle. “Go to your room. I’ll be in, in a moment.”

“Yes boss,” you salute quickly, before you yawn. 

Mycroft watches as you pad back into your room with a small smile upon his face. As he does so he can’t help but think that if it weren’t for your lack of memory right now he’d probably have just tapped you on the bum. Though of course he muses if you still had all of your memory intact then you probably wouldn't be sleeping in separate rooms if you’d been there. He lets out a soft, wistful breath, before he moves off to get a book. 

When he returns to your room with it and you give him a bit of a quizzical look from where you’re sitting up in bed, he explains, “Reading to my brother when he was younger always used to help him get off to sleep. Of course with him it was always books about science or far flung adventure”-you let out a bit of a snort-“I thought you might appreciate something a bit more soothing at this late hour, so I brought a book of poetry along for the occasion.”

“I think I can add, ‘thinks things through,’ to the list of things I know about you,” you tease. 

“You've got a list?” Mycroft enquires playfully, and you blush a bit, before you watch as he moves around to sit down on the edge of the bed. 

“Mmmhmm,” you utter, deciding to be mysterious as you slide down properly and give him a bit of a sleepy smile. You tug your pillow a little further down. 

Mycroft has the oddest urge to stroke at your hair. 

“You can touch it if you want to,” you murmur, once you see where his gaze has gone. 

Mycroft chews on his lip and looks into your eyes steadily for a long moment, making sure that this is really something you’re comfortable with, and that you’re not just saying such a thing because you’re befuddled and tired. You seem to be in your right mind however, so, very tentatively, he reaches out a hand, before he lets it rest slowly down upon your hair. He keeps it still for a moment and lets his eyes dart to you again, but you’re smiling, so he slowly begins to shift his fingers. They curl around your hair and feel how soft it is. His breath hitches inside him and he can’t help but smile. He’s wanted to do this again for so very long. You seem to appreciate the movement too, for your smile only grows and you snuggle closer to him, until the tip of your nose is a mere centimetre from his thigh. 

Mycroft, feeling more excited than he’d like to admit by this development, asks, “Shall I read to you now?” You nod, closing your eyes, so he flips the book open clumsily one-handedly, before he begins to read. 

He’s read to you a fair amount of time-his hand slipping across your hair in time to the rhythmic words that spill from his lips-when you open your eyes slowly again and ask him sleepily, “Mycroft, you don’t have a minor position in the British Government do you?” His hand stills, and as you move it slides to you cheek. He cups at it gently, his heart shifting in his chest. “Minor people wouldn't have had to do work on their day off, _and_ they wouldn't be living in a big house like this…” you trail off sleepily, as if you’d managed to summon up enough energy to express those two points, but you simply can’t find any more. 

Mycroft smiles at you, looking pleased that you’ve managed to figure that out. “Don’t tell anyone,” he murmurs, bending forwards at the same time that you close your eyes. You sense his shadow falling over you, and your heart leaps in your chest a little, before you open your eyes again. “But _no,”_ he finishes. You make a sound of contentment and he kisses at the edge of your mouth gently, before he pulls back quickly again. 

He goes back to reading as if nothing had happened, but you keep your eyes open and peer up at him curiously. He keeps his eyes fixed upon the page, but his lips quirk upward when he senses you watching him. He pauses reading and clasps at your hand. Your hand twists and your palms slide together. Your fingers tighten upon each other’s. 

“Mycroft?” you utter, before he can continue reading. 

“Mm?” he murmurs, his eyes darting to you. 

“Thank you,” you smile, and Mycroft’s heart contracts pleasantly. 

“You’re most welcome,” he breathes. You smile at one another for a moment more, before he goes back to reading. 

It’s not long, before he begins to feel your hand loosening in his. He lets go of it carefully and you draw it to your cheek, snuffling a little. You've got your eyes shut. He lowers the book to his lap and just watches you. Your breathing is regular. You seem to be both content and asleep. “Sweet dreams my dear,” he murmurs, before he turns away, rises carefully from the bed and leaves the room, switching the light out on his way.


	5. Mycroft's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft begins the tour, which leads to agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for all of your support! :D 
> 
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When Mycroft wakes, at his usual early time when darkness is yet to fade in the air and all is still and silent, he spends a moment thinking about work, before he remembers about you and that he’s got the day off. _Well,_ semi-off. No doubt he’ll still have a few messages to send. He smiles a bit now as he remembers about what you’d said last night. He looks at the clock that’s across the distance of the bed and to the right of him. _5:10_ blinks at him in steady, red letters. He sighs and shifts a little. He supposes that it’s too early to wake you, even though he’s keen to see you. Still, he thinks, it’s not too early for him to get up and to make a start on his day. He heaves himself upward and begins to do just that.

 

When it’s a quarter-to-seven Mycroft finds himself leaning back from the laptop that he’s got set up on the kitchen table, frowning a little at his cup of coffee-he’s drunk three-quarters of it, but the last-quarter has gone cold due to the fact that he’d gotten distracted when he’d received an e-mail from the Ministry of Justice about a problematic case-and wondering if this is a more reasonable time to be seeing if you’re up. He decides that it is, so he gets up, puts his laptop away, spills the undrunk coffee down the sink and washes the cup up. After quickly drying his hands he turns around, feeling both a little excited and apprehensive, before he scurries out of the kitchen and hurries upstairs. He slows down when he reaches your door and listens for a moment with his ear pressed against it. He can’t hear anything, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not up and moving about in there. 

 

“F/N?” he attempts softly. 

 

Still no response. Tentatively he pushes the door open a fraction. He shuffles forwards and peers around it. 

 

He can make out the lump of you beneath the bed. Your body’s turned towards the window. 

 

He swallows and makes his way carefully inside, leaving the door ajar behind him. He makes his way across to the far side of the bed, before he stops and turns back to you once he’s there. You’ve got such a calm and peaceful expression about your face. Your eyes are shut in a relaxed fashion and a smile toys on your slightly parted lips. Both of your hands are close to your head. Your hair fans about, drifting across the white pillow. Mycroft tears his gaze away and thinks that he should probably be opening the curtains and encouraging you to wake. He looks back at you and finds himself moving to sit delicately upon the edge of the bed. He perches there for a moment, his heart jumping a little in his chest. He does not want you to wake and see him like this. He’s not quite sure what you’d make of it if you did. You’d accepted the truth that you’d slept together fairly well last night, _but,_ in the cold light of day and with things so mixed between you…he lets out a breath, and his mind can’t help but wonder exactly how long he has left of seeing that peaceful expression upon your face. Will you get angry with him again today? Will today be the day that you find out everything? His face becomes more serious and his hand goes to cup at your hair. He begins to stroke at it rhythmically. 

 

“I can’t stop you from remembering, nor would I want to when it comes down to it. Even though I know that it might have painful consequences for me I know that you wish to remember, and you have every right to. I just hope that when it comes down to it, you won’t turn against me, and you’ll realize that I’ve always had your best interests at heart.” As he finishes he chews on his lip as he looks down at you and feels far more afraid than he’d like. He doesn’t want to lose you, and now he’s beginning to realize that your rejection is what he fears most of all. 

 

He lets out a breath and turns his head away from you. His mind made up he gets steadily to his feet and moves across to draw open the curtains. The low morning light filters through the room. He turns back to you to see that you’ve now got your face scrunched up and that you’re blinking at this disturbance. 

 

“M-Mycroft?” you say groggily, just about remembering where you are when you catch sight of his hulking figure in front of you. 

 

“I'm sorry for waking you my dear,” he says briskly, beginning to move off towards the door, “But since we've got quite a lot to do today”-

 

“Wait,” you murmur, dragging yourself into a slightly slumped sitting up position and reaching a hand out towards him. He falters, before his eyes grudgingly meet yours. Slowly he walks over, takes your hand delicately and sits down upon the edge of the bed. You lie back on your side and look at him in concern. “How long have you been up?”

 

“An hour,” he says distractedly, looking at the way that his hand covers yours instead of meeting your eyes. When he feels that your gaze is on him intensely however he sees fit to add, “A bit more than that actually.” He sighs a little. 

 

You swing upward and press the back of your free hand against his cheek. “You’re pale”-

 

“I naturally have a pale complexion,” Mycroft says evasively, taking his hand away from yours and shifting away. 

 

“Did something happen?” you ask, frowning up at him. 

 

“No,” he says, getting to his feet. “Everything is perfectly fine.” You wish that you could believe him. 

 

“Do you have to go into work or something?” you ask, for that is the only thing you can think of for him looking this way. “We could always do this some other day, o-or I could get Sally or someone”-

 

“Like I said there is no problem,” he says, turning back to you and casting you a brief smile, before he looks away again. You might be able to tell when something is wrong with him-the first non-family member to be able to do so-but he knows that you have no idea of the huge pain he feels at having to go through with the day. He walks away without another word. 

 

*

 

Breakfast is a quiet affair. One where you both watch each other when you think that the other isn't aware. 

 

You wish that you knew what was on Mycroft’s mind. He’s definitely troubled about something. How very different he seems from the quiet, softly spoken man who’d read you poetry last night! That seems like a dream now and you feel more confused about him because of it. 

 

Mycroft carries on wondering with a heavy heart if today will be the day that you’ll remember the one thing that could turn you against him. 

 

*

 

You take one of Mycroft’s black cars to Baker Street-the driver is the same one that had taken you to Mycroft’s home last night-and that journey too is largely silent. Your mind starts to drift from trying to figure out whatever’s bothering Mycroft to the day ahead. You begin to feel nervous. You feel like you’re on some sort of quest with no idea what the treasure is, and you’re worried that it might end up doing you more harm than good. 

 

Finally, because you can’t bear to stay silent any more, you find yourself saying, “I suppose my flat might be different now though. For all I know Mrs. Hudson might have moved everything out and put some things in storage, she can’t keep it as it is forever …or Sherlock might have done something to it. I think he wanted to make use of the space for his experiments…”

 

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Mycroft says, looking sideways at you. You look at him. “Clearly you have little idea that everyone’s hoping you’ll move back into 221C one day.” 

 

“Oh, I'm not sure about that,” you mumble, looking down at your lap. Mycroft just looks at you with a considering expression about his face for a moment. He knows that it might never happen, especially if you _do_ end up remembering everything, but he desperately hopes to see you living back in 221C one day, even if you don’t want to know him. At least he’d see more of you then than he is currently. 

 

* 

 

Mrs. Hudson greets you enthusiastically once you arrive, giving you a warm hug, before once more Mycroft and you find yourselves entering 221C. Mycroft was right. Everything _is_ exactly the same. You look back at him to see that he’s smiling at you as if to say, _‘What did I tell you?’_ You smile at him in return and put your bag down just inside the entranceway. 

 

Mrs. Hudson leaves you to it and Mycroft lingers by the dining table-the books that had been there before about scriptwriting are still there-whilst you move around. You try and focus on everything as hard as you can, taking in the slight scuff marks on the settee and the circular stains from tea that are on the coffee table. You move across to look at the knick-knacks and photos on the shelf above the TV, which you’d never got around to looking at before. There’s a silver figure of a dog. When you pick it up you notice that it is cool to the touch and heavier than you’d expected, but no memory whatsoever comes back to you from holding it. Perhaps it hadn’t meant that much to you, you think. You put it down and your eyes move on to the photos. There are four of them. One of them is of Alice and you. You have no idea where you are but the background looks leafy and there seems to be some ornamental statues there too. A garden centre in Wales perhaps? You frown. Again you want something to come back to you just from looking at it. Even if it’s just some memory of you laughing or being silly. But again, nothing. The next one shows you with all of your family. The background is similar to the first. It must have been taken on some day out that you’d all gone on. You try and figure out the exact time. Your sister and you both look like you’re teenagers, so before you’d moved to London then. The third shows you with Sally. You both look a little worse for wear. A night out. But whether it had happened once you’d already moved to London or on the visit you’d made there beforehand is unclear. You don’t get a memory from that one either, but aside from loud music and a sore head you get the sense that there’s probably not much to be remembered about it in the first place. The background in the last photo is of somewhere that you don’t recognize. Sherlock, John and you are all sitting at a rather cluttered table, whilst Mrs. Hudson stands behind you, looking over you. You’re all wearing paper hats, and Sherlock is pulling a bit of a face to your left, which makes you smile now as much as it had then if the grin you’re wearing is anything to go by. John-on your right-is looking at you both in bafflement. Whilst Mrs. Hudson is the only one looking at the camera. She’s wearing an expression on her face as if to say, _‘This is what I have to put up with.’_ It makes you smile again and you turn back to Mycroft, wanting to share it with him, but you find that he’s circling the table in a rather agitated fashion, swinging his umbrella back and forth. The smile on your face fades a little. You clear your throat. He stops and glances across at you. 

 

“When was this one taken?” you ask, waving the photo at him. 

 

He makes his way across carefully and peers down at it. “Ah,” he says, once he’s grasped hold of it himself and tilted it up so that he can see it more clearly, “It must have been taken during that infernal Christmas party that my brother held just upstairs here once. I believe quite a few people were invited.” 

 

You frown and look at the photo quickly again, before you peer up at him. “Did you go?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft lets go of the photo and smiles in a sad, pained fashion for a moment. Sometimes he still forgets how very little you know him. “I’ve never really been one for parties,” he tells you gently. 

 

You feel a pang when you see the way that he’s looking down at the photo. “She would have known that wouldn't she?” you ask, looking down at the photo yourself. Mycroft’s lips part. “The _old_ me?”

 

Mycroft hesitates for a moment, but when you come to look at him pleadingly he sighs, “Yes, yes I dare say she would have.”

 

You exchange a bit of a sad smile with one another. The pain and longing for that different time rises up inside both of your hearts, blending together like the melodies of whale song. 

 

You turn away from one another. You put the photograph back on the shelf, whilst Mycroft goes back to his position by the table. 

 

You let out a soft breath. “I think I’ll just go see my room for a bit,” you inform him, turning back to him, before you instinctively head to the far end where you think that your room is. 

 

“Of course,” Mycroft replies, resting his umbrella against the side of the table, before he settles in a chair that’s beside it. 

 

You finish padding across and push the door open. You were right. It is your room. The bed is on the left. A multi-coloured stripy blanket that looks home made is slumped halfway down the duvet. A wooden wardrobe with a mirror is at the foot of the bed. Its door is slightly open. You’re reminded of the fact that Alice had come here to pick up some clothes for you when you were at hospital. To the left there lies a small black desk with f/c chair. A space for a plug lies just above it. You can imagine that you’d used it pre-dominantly for charging up either your laptop or phone. Scattered papers rest on the desk along with a vase that has some rather wilting roses inside of it. Some of the rose petals have fallen off onto the papers. You frown, wondering who’d given them to you. You’re still learning things about yourself, but you’re pretty certain that the you from before, as confident and daring as she seems, still wouldn't be the type of person to buy herself flowers. The walls meanwhile are sparsely decorated, but the few posters that are up contain quotes that you must have at one time found inspirational. Perhaps they’d even inspired a scene or two in your scripts, but you get little from them now, just a buzzing sensation in your mind. You go across to the wardrobe and let your hand run along the blanket as you go. You draw open the doors properly and peer inside at the clothes that remain there. Alice had clearly taken the nicest things, for all that’s left are a couple of old tops with their patterns faded, some jeans and rumpled hoodies. There is a nice cardigan there though, and you take that out and wrap it around yourself for a moment, taking comfort from its soft fabric. 

 

Once you put it back inside you step back a little, before you wince when you feel something hard underfoot. You move off to the side and frown. A small wooden letter ‘M’ is on the floor. You bend and pick it up. It feels hard and firm against your fingers. Another knick-knack that you’d picked up somewhere along the way? Perhaps something that you’d kept because of your feelings for Mycroft? You smile and take it across to the desk, placing it at the bottom of the vase and wonder suddenly if it was Mycroft who had given you the roses. Your smile grows. You like that thought. That there had been more to your relationship than just a fumble at the red-brick house. That, like Mycroft had said, that had just been the peak of whatever had come before. Your hands rake through the papers and your eyes scan the words. You’re sure that not too long ago they would have all made sense to you. But now they just seem like some glimmer into a past life, which you can’t properly grasp hold of. Some seem to be notes on some sort of story you’d been writing. There’s something about a firearm and a gun at a swimming pool. You frown. You can’t really imagine yourself writing about weapons. But apparently you had. Off to the side you’ve written: _Character that resembles you lurks in background, defeats snipers and uses a firearm on character who resembles James Moriarty. Changes everything._ You frown even harder, whilst something prickles uncomfortably inside your stomach. Talking about weapons is one thing, but using them is quite another. Who is this James Moriarty? You don’t recognize the name at all, but whoever he is you’re quite sure that he doesn’t deserve that. There’s also some sort of shopping list that mentions milk. You frown down at it all. When you feel the burning of something in your mind you close your eyes, thinking that it might be a memory starting to return to you. It’s not. Rather it’s just the beginnings of a headache. You open your eyes and let out a frustrated groan. You slam your hands down upon the papers. 

 

_“F/N?”_ you hear Mycroft’s anxious voice calling you from the other room. 

 

You let out a bit of a breath, abandon your position by the desk and stride back into the room. “I thought I’d be able to remember something, but I can’t,” you huff out frustratedly. “You’d think that coming back to where I used to live and all would trigger _something.”_

 

Mycroft puts the book about scriptwriting that he’s been absent-mindedly flicking through, whilst waiting for you aside and swings out of his chair. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” he turns to you. You look at him. Frustration is written all over your features. Mycroft moves closer to you, wanting to soothe you. “Come,” he murmurs, gesturing that you should move towards him. You huff out a bit of a breath, before you nod. You meet each other halfway, before you wrap your arms around his middle and press your head against his chest. You want comfort from him right now. You want him to be the man who’d read poetry to you last night and not the man who’s been so silent and confusing this morning. Considering it’s the first time you’ve embraced him it feels an oddly natural thing to do. “Your mind’s too tense and you’re expecting something to happen,” Mycroft goes on, “But it won’t, not with you getting yourself worked up like this, will it hmm?” He leans away from you and touches your forehead with the back of his hand, before he lowers said hand to your waist. You peer up at him. As your eyes meet a watery smile breaks out across your face. Mycroft’s eyes soften and your heart wriggles about pleasantly inside your chest.

 

“Was it you who got me the flowers in my room?” you ask, hope filling your face. 

 

Mycroft’s expression instantly becomes an awkward one. “No,” he breathes. 

 

_“Oh,”_ your face falls slightly. 

 

“But perhaps it should have been,” Mycroft manages to rescue himself and you stare up at him hopefully again. Your faces inch a little closer and you can feel Mycroft’s hands tightening on you. You’re not sure what you had once been together and exactly what you are now, but all you know in that moment is that you want more. You want to get lost inside those blue eyes and feel his lips coming home to yours. Mycroft smiles at you and your heart gives a little flip, before he utters, _“F/N…_ there’s perhaps something that I need to tell you. Something that you need to know”- 

 

_“Cooee!”_ calls a voice, followed by a tinkle of china. Mycroft and you instinctively tighten your grip on one another. Your gaze goes to the door. Mrs. Hudson is there, holding a tea tray, and she says, “Oh dears, do excuse me.” Mycroft and you let go and pull away from each other with a start. “I wasn't aware that anything was happening”- she breaks off awkwardly. 

 

You find yourself looking off to the side embarrassedly, but Mycroft takes the whole thing in his stride. “Nothing to concern yourself about Mrs. Hudson. I was just reminding F/N not to put too much pressure on herself today, that’s all,” he says briskly. 

 

“I'm glad that you’re taking care of her Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson responds a little severely, and your eyes widen, whilst Mycroft offers her a cold smile. “Your brother and John have requested that you join them upstairs for tea,” she informs him. 

 

“Then, I suppose, as much as I hate to acknowledge it, it would be most rude of us to refuse,” Mycroft comments, glancing at you. You offer him a little amused smile in return. Mrs. Hudson lets out a little coo, and when Mycroft sees how much your eyes are sparkling he finds that he has to look away. 

 

“It _would_ be most rude,” Mrs. Hudson concurs, before she begins to turn away.

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” you call her back, and as the tea things rattle on the tray she turns back to you. “Erm,” you say, suddenly feeling a bit more flustered, and your hands jerk back and forth for a moment, before you build up enough courage to ask, “Do you know who happened to give me the flowers that are in my bedroom?” Mrs. Hudson looks between Mycroft and you for a moment. “I'm just curious,” you tell her. 

 

She nods and looks more settled. “The Detective Inspector got you them dear the night he came to invite you to that masquerade ball.” 

 

_“Oh,”_ you say, and once more you can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Once more Mrs. Hudson looks between Mycroft and you. “Thanks for telling me,” you force a smile at her. Mycroft shifts uncomfortably beside you.

 

“It’s no problem dear,” Mrs. Hudson sniffs, before she turns to head towards the stairs. 

 

Mycroft makes to move past you and follow her, but remembering something you grab at his arm. “What were you going to tell me before?”

 

“Oh,” he swallows as he looks at you, and his eyes seem to be flickering with far more things than usual. “Nothing of significance,” he clears his throat. “I too was just about to say that you had more than likely received the flowers from the Detective.” You know that he’s lying, but before you can ask him why, he steps back towards you, places a hand on your back and ushers you forwards. “Come,” he says, “Or the tea will be getting cold.” 

 

You eye him for another moment, before you follow after Mrs. Hudson with a sinking heart. Mycroft moves after you. 

 

Soon enough you find yourself slipping into the room that had been on the background of the fourth photo, and as you spot the two armchairs that are close to the fireplace you realize that it is them that must have come back to you in the cottage before. Your disappointment and worry about what on earth is happening between Mycroft and you comes to be momentarily replaced with joy. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asks, coming to the side of you and slipping a hand protectively onto your shoulder. 

 

You nod, feeling happier from him touching you. “Those armchairs came back to me before. I didn't realize where they were from, but I do now.” 

 

Mycroft smiles, and as he squeezes at your shoulder you know that he’s happy for you too. 

 

You look away from him to see that everyone’s staring at you both with varied expressions on their faces. Mrs. Hudson, having set the tea down on the cluttered table from the photo, is looking at the pair of you curiously with her hands clasped beneath her chin. She smiles as you look at her, and you can tell that though she might not to know what to make of Mycroft herself that she’s happy for you. You swallow and shift a little. Sherlock meanwhile, sitting in the far armchair, looks as if he’s both disgusted and struggling to comprehend the scene before him. Whilst John, coming from the kitchen area and in the middle of eating a biscuit with his mouth fully agape, gawps at you as if he’s just sighted a new discovery in medicine. 

 

“I think F/N would probably appreciate it if you swallowed that biscuit now John,” Sherlock mutters disdainfully. 

 

John’s mouth flexes, before he nods and swallows. 

 

“Never mind that,” Mrs. Hudson says chidingly, “Doesn't it make you happy that your brother’s finally found someone? You should have seen them downstairs Sherlock. Why I’ve never seen Mycroft look at anyone in such a caring fashion! The expression on his face was so foreign that I had to look twice!” 

 

“We’re not”- you say automatically, before you break off. 

 

Mycroft’s hand jumps off your shoulder, before you shift a little away from him. 

 

“I'm rather glad I missed it Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock comments underneath his breath. 

 

Perhaps she can’t hear him, or perhaps she simply chooses to ignore him, for in the next moment she says to you, “Now, don’t be embarrassed dear. We get all sorts around here. Mycroft and you will hardly be the oddest couple.”

 

“That’s nice,” you utter, “But really we’re not da”-

 

“Good,” Sherlock interrupts, before he stands. “Because my brother walks around pompously enough without getting himself a nice little girlfriend too.”

 

“Oh really Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sighs, “Why you can’t just be happy I’ll”-

 

“Ah, but my brother _hasn’t_ found someone has he Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock interrupts, his eyes glimmering. “Like F/N said there’s nothing going on. They even slept in separate rooms last night. Isn't that right brother dear?” He turns his gaze to Mycroft in a delicious fashion. 

 

Mycroft scowls and dots of red burst onto his cheeks. “F/N and my sleeping arrangements are none of your concern,” he utters. 

 

Sherlock just smirks. 

 

“F/N,” John says, appearing in front of you suddenly and thrusting a cup of tea into your hands. “Would you mind coming into the kitchen with me for a moment?”

 

You nod, feeling curious, and you give Mycroft one last glance, before you allow yourself to be led away. 

 

John leads you over to a table that’s full to the brim of all sorts of chemicals and vials. You stare at it. It’s fascinating to see a sample of the experiments that Sherlock does up close. 

 

“Yeah, Sherlock gets bored…a lot,” is John’s explanation when he sees you staring at it. You swallow and nod. You can hear Mycroft’s soft voice in the background saying something to either Mrs. Hudson or his brother. John briefly touches at your arm and you start. “Sorry,” he says, looking sheepish. “Are you all right?” You look at him. “I mean, I know that you’re still trying to remember everything and all, but you’re all right?” You don’t know what else to say to that, so you just nod. John glances behind you at the others. “Mycroft and you then?” he asks, looking back at you. 

 

You look down, feeling suddenly flustered. “Oh-Oh I don’t know about that, like I said, we’re not really, I mean, I know we slept together”-John’s eyes widen as your own dart up to him-“I know that now, and I know that everyone’s probably expecting…but things are different now.” You look down again. Your fingers go to the edge of the table, getting close to where some chemicals have clustered together and almost formed some sort of mould, before John carefully takes hold of your hand and guides it away again. You look back up at him. 

 

“It’s probably not wise for you to try touching any part of the table right now. I clean it up the best I can when I come around, but that’s a recent one from this morning”- he gestures to the stain. 

 

You nod, before you let out a bit of a huff of breath. You look quickly over your shoulder at the same time that Mycroft’s eyes dart to you. You exchange a bit of a tight smile with him, before you look away from each other again. “It’s just, he knows a lot more about me than I know about him…” you trail off, before you get a sudden idea. “I don’t suppose that you could tell me anything about him?” you ask John hopefully. “It’s just that I’ve been getting so confused trying to work him out…” 

 

John shifts his position and looks suddenly awkward. “Well, quite honestly I think you’d be feeling like that anyway. Not because of your memory loss,” he adds hurriedly, “But because Mycroft is a Holmes. Whilst, to be honest,” he says, lowering his voice, “Despite the fact that I moved in before you I don’t really know him that well. I get the sense that you’d probably gotten to know him a lot better.” Your face falls. “All I know,” John says, trying to placate you, “Is that Sherlock and he have a somewhat… _difficult_ relationship, and that he tells everyone he’s got a minor position in the British Government, but according to Sherlock he _is_ the British Government.”

 

You feel a little stunned as to the exact extent of Mycroft’s influence and you look across to him again. _“Wow,”_ you breathe, “I mean I knew his position wasn't a minor one, but, _wow…”_

 

“Yeah,” John says a little awkwardly, before he looks at you more seriously as he goes on, “Mrs. Hudson was right though. Mycroft does seem… _different_ around you.” You feel suddenly hopeful. “Also another thing that I’ve learnt about Mycroft in my time here is that he hates legwork. A lot of the time he’s happier getting other people-sometimes Sherlock and I-to run around for him, so, I mean, I don’t know what conversations the pair of you have had or anything, but the fact that he went to Wales to get you and bring you back here must mean that he cares for you, y’know, in his own odd way.” You nod, taking the information in, whilst you sip at your tea. “Do you think you might, y’know, care for him?” John asks you as casually as he can. 

 

The tea nearly burns your throat and you wince a little as you lower your cup. “I don’t know,” you breathe, shifting your position so that you can look sideways at Mycroft, before you look back at John again. “I mean, I think I might, and of course I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him or anything like that, but he’s just so confusing.” John looks at you. “Sometimes he’s so sweet and then it’s like he’s shutting down and unable to tell me what’s really going on in his head.” You try not to feel sad about the whole thing, but you just can’t help it. “Plus,” you shrug, “I’m not really sure if-if a relationship is what I need in my life right now,” you look down again, “What with everything. I mean I don’t fully know who I am right now.” 

 

“Right,” John nods, before the two of you drift into silence. 

 

You sip at your tea some more just in case John wants to say something, and then, once you figure out that he doesn’t, you give him a bit of an awkward smile, before you drift off back into the sitting area again. Mycroft, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson-with her free hand on her hip-are all standing around beside the armchairs with their respective cups of tea, but when something that’s on the wall over the settee to the right catches your eye you make your way over to that instead. It looks like something that you’d find in a police station. Printed copies of photos of people that you aren't familiar with along with scrawled notes are stuck to it. 

 

“What’s this?” you say, turning back to the others. 

 

The conversation between them and John who has now joined them falters and they look at you. You point at the wall. 

 

“They’re to help my brother analyse a case F/N,” Mycroft informs you softly. 

 

You look back at it. 

 

“Sometimes it helps to have everything out in front of you rather than just keeping it stuck in your mind,” Sherlock elaborates, appearing beside you. 

 

You look at him at the same time that something jolts in your brain. Without further ado you let out a bit of a gasp, shove your teacup into Sherlock’s free hand, turn on the spot and hurry towards the stairs. 

 

_“F/N?”_ you hear three questioning voices ask behind you. Mycroft’s rises above them all, whilst Mrs. Hudson just lets out an, “Oh dear!”

 

There’s a chink of crockery and you can hear footsteps clattering after you, but you just ignore them. Instead you hurtle back inside 221C, grab your bag from where you’d left it by the entranceway and hurry across towards the table. You push the scriptwriting books aside impatiently, pull out your notebook and frantically begin to tear out its pages. You lay down all the notes that you’d pre-dominantly made in the cottage alongside each other. 

 

_“F/N?”_ you hear Mycroft’s voice say anxiously. You look up to find that he’s standing by the door looking at you worriedly with one arm outstretched, preventing anyone else from pushing past him. You can see Sherlock bouncing on the balls of his feet behind him. 

 

You beckon Mycroft forwards. “Maybe-Maybe I need to treat all of this like a case,” you begin a little breathlessly as he hurries towards you with Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson in close pursuit. “Just lay it all out and”- you break off and gesture to your forehead. You know that Mycroft understands as he stops beside you with an urgent expression in his eyes. Together, along with the others, you peer down at the scattered notes you’ve made on random lines or images that have come back to you. You haven’t ripped out the notes you’d made last night about Mycroft though. They’re not exactly something that you want other people analysing, especially Mycroft himself. 

 

Apart from the occasional noise of recognition there’s complete silence for a while. Mycroft finds that the restlessness he’s felt for the majority of the time since coming here surges up inside him even more. He can’t help but feel worried that the longer you look at your notes the more likely you’ll be able to remember Sherlock’s fall and all the feelings of hurt, which had sprouted up because of it. Of course although he doesn’t want to stop you from remembering or be the reason of any more hurt he finds that he doesn’t want you to remember here if he can help it, not when you’re so surrounded by other people. Not when he feels sure that he’d just make a mess of things and fail to explain himself to you properly if you were to remember now. Eager to delay the moment therefore he looks around rather desperately, trying to find anything that he might be able to say or do to distract you. Finally his eyes skim across the line that you’d written about living in a world of goldfish and he says without thinking, “I said that.” He winces a moment later when he realizes that you’ll no doubt want an explanation from him about that now and that he’s just inadvertently made things worse for himself. That’s something that seems to be becoming a distinct habit when it comes to you. 

 

He hopes that you might not ask about it and that he’ll be free to find a more suitable distraction, but sure enough you peer up at him and question, “What does it mean?” 

 

Mycroft exchanges a quick glance with his brother. There’s something testing in Sherlock’s eyes and Mycroft can tell that his brother knows that he does not wish for you to know about the comment that he’d made all that time ago. 

 

Sherlock, as usual, does not respect his wishes. “It was Mycroft’s way of saying that everyone but him is an idiot F/N,” he tells you. 

 

_“Oh,”_ you breathe at the same time that John hisses, _“Sherlock!”_

 

Sherlock just shrugs. 

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft begins delicately, looking at you, “If you’re quite finished here F/N then we could move onto the next part of our tour?” he says, wishing in hindsight that he’d just asked you such a thing in the first place.

 

“But I wanted”- you glance at the papers. 

 

“I believe that Lestrade’s waiting for us at the police station. Best not to keep him waiting,” Mycroft goes on; almost like you’d never spoken, but the expression on his face tells you that he’d heard you. 

 

Your face falls. You’d hoped that he’d understand that you just want a few more moments to really focus on the notes that you’d made to see if you remember anything. Why is it that everyone seems to want to delay you from finding out the truth every time you get closer to it? Your parents with your laptop and phone, Greg and Sally’s seeming reluctance to not go past a certain point and now Mycroft. 

 

“My brother just wants to get you out of here, before I can embarrass him any more and make you see what type of man he is,” Sherlock tells you, as if he’s read your mind. 

 

You swallow and duck your head. You don’t much like the feelings that are growing inside of you. 

 

“F/N?” John’s voice comes suddenly. You look up at him. “Don’t forget what I said,” he tells you, and you know that he means about Mycroft and how genuine his feelings must be based on his overall behaviour. 

 

You nod. “We can go now,” you say softly to Mycroft, before you begin to gather up your notes and put them back in your bag. 

 

You’re quiet leaving everyone. Your goodbyes are subdued, and as you slip to the far end of the back seat in the car and Mycroft follows after you, once more with his umbrella, you know that he’s noticed. 

 

The driver’s barely pulled out of Baker Street when Mycroft looks across at you, whilst his hand shifts against the seat and says, “I was not aware that you’d overheard that particular conversation between my brother and I. I can see now that it has upset you as much as it had surely done back then. I can only ask for your forgiveness and state that I did not mean any offence by it.”

 

“Is this what you do when you’re not too busy pretending to be a gentleman?” you blurt out, and you’re surprised yourself at how angry you sound. Both of your hands clench into fists upon your lap. “Make everyone else feel bad because they’re not as clever as you?” you elaborate. 

 

Mycroft swallows and turns his head away. “I can see that you’re determined to be angry with me”-

 

“No,” you retort, “I guess I'm just trying to work out, which one is the real Mycroft, the one who was reading me poetry last night”-the driver lets out a bit of a snort. Something that hurriedly turns into a cough when Mycroft throws a glare his way-“Or the one who apparently abuses other people and calls them goldfish. Which one is the _real_ you, and which one is just a masquerade?” You’re crying by the end of your words, and you blink hurriedly, before you look out of the window. You’re shocked by just how hurt you feel at the thought that Mycroft might be this hard, unfeeling creature. Stunned by how much it suddenly seems to matter. You’d known of course that your feelings were complicated for him, but you hadn’t realized until this point just how much you’ve clearly let him into your heart. 

 

Mycroft glances at you desperately, but as he sees the driver’s eyes flicking to you both again in the windscreen mirror he knows that he can’t explain himself properly to you right now. 

 

*

 

Once you get to the police station you get out of the car silently and fold your arms, whilst you wait for Mycroft to make his way around to you. He leads you into the police station with a clearing of his throat. You trail after him, feeling like a delinquent teenager. 

 

He announces at the reception that you’re both there to see Lestrade and then a police officer in uniform comes to escort you upstairs. He lets you into Greg’s office first, and you feel relieved when you come to see Greg’s kind, familiar face, whilst you can’t help but hope that he might distract you from the problem of Mycroft and you. 

 

On the contrary he does just the opposite. “Is everything all right?” he asks, standing up and hugging you, “You've got a pretty injured expression on your face.”

 

Your lips part. What on earth can you say to that?

 

In the end though you don’t have to say anything, for Mycroft announces, “That’s rather my fault Detective Inspector”-Greg-with his arms still wrapped around you- looks at him and raises his eyebrows as if to say, _‘Oh?’-_ “I was rather tactless back at Baker Street and I'm afraid that it seems to have lost me the little of F/N’s favour that I’d gathered. In fact”-he lets out a bit of a breath-“All things considered, perhaps it would be best if you were to give F/N the rest of the tour instead?” 

 

You pull away from Greg and look at Mycroft. You feel suddenly desperate. 

 

Greg looks down at you, before he looks back at Mycroft. _“Me?”_ he asks. 

 

_“Yes,”_ Mycroft replies, carefully keeping his eyes on Greg, “She’d probably enjoy herself a lot more with you.” To you his sentence feels like a kick in the stomach. Things have been difficult between you at times, but you have had some nice moments together, and you feel hurt that Mycroft would rather just walk away and leave you in someone else’s care than try to make amends properly with you. Hurt because in one sense, you feel like, it would be easier to walk away too. But you’re prepared to stick it out. You just wish that he would be. 

 

“Well,” Greg begins a little awkwardly, “As much as I’d like to and everything”-he breaks off to give you a glance of acknowledgement-“I’ve really got a lot going on at work today.”

 

You nod understandingly and feel grateful for the fact that he’s unavailable, but Mycroft comments, “You don’t look busy,” as he casts his eye to the open tub of doughnuts with pink icing and hundreds and thousands that are on Greg’s desk. One of them is half-eaten. 

 

Greg winces and pulls a bit of a face. “Why don’t the pair of you sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the two chairs that are in front of his desk, before he makes his way uncomfortably back around to his. Uncomfortably because he feels suddenly very much like a relationship counsellor, and that is _so_ not his division. Once you’re all seated he offers you both a doughnut. You take one, but Mycroft leans as far away from the extended box as possible and shakes his head with his lip curled up disapprovingly. Neither Greg nor you can know that he’s thinking that if you want to share Greg’s saliva, which had been dripping down from his half-eaten doughnut all this time onto the others then that is your prerogative, but he most definitely does not. “Right,” Greg says, finally resting the tub back on the table once he sees that he’s not going to get anywhere with Mycroft. “What’s the problem between you then?”

 

You lower the doughnut you’d been eating quite happily and frown. _“Mycroft,”_ you say, deliberately emphasizing his name, whilst you wipe crumbs off your jeans with your free hand. “Seems to think that the rest of us are goldfish.”

 

“Ah,” Greg says, whilst he shoots Mycroft a look that says, _‘Why did you have to go and ruin things already?’_

 

Mycroft clears his throat. “F/N seems to be forgetting to mention the fact that I apologized about the matter earlier in the car. I told her that I meant no offence.”

 

“You asked for my forgiveness, that is not the same thing as an apology,” you state, finishing off your doughnut with relish and folding your arms.

 

Mycroft bites at his lip feeling irritated. 

 

_“Well,”_ Greg begins reasonably, “No matter the wording, it’s still a good start. Don’t you think? Asking for forgiveness and saying that”-

 

_“What?”_ you blurt out, “You think that he meant goldfish in a _good_ way? How can being compared to a goldfish _ever_ be a good thing?” 

 

“I think you’re taking this whole thing out of context,” Mycroft announces briskly, “I was merely using it to illustrate the fact that I’m not suitable to have”- he breaks off suddenly. 

 

_“What?”_ you say, turning back to look at him quickly. 

 

Mycroft’s lips part. He looks to Greg for guidance. 

 

“I really think that honesty is the best policy,” Greg nods. 

 

Mycroft swings his head away to look at his lap. He really does _not_ think that honesty’s the best policy here, but in the end he goes along with it and says, “Romantic relationships,” before he glances at you swiftly. 

 

_“Right,”_ you say, avoiding his gaze and letting out a long breath. You can’t help but feel disappointed. All this time you’ve been hoping for the best possible outcome. Hoping for yourself that you weren’t shallow, hoping that if Mycroft and you _had_ slept together, which you now know that you did, that there had genuinely been something between you. That it had all come from a place of love and long-term desire. That it hadn’t been just a quick, meaningless fumble that you would have carried on from like nothing had ever happened if you hadn’t lost your memory. But now, as you realize just how disappointed you are by the fact that this best scenario isn't true, you come to see too that, particularly over the past twenty-four hours, a small part of you had started to hope for something else too. That you’d started to hope that perhaps, over time, once you’d figured out more about Mycroft, the pair of you could begin to see if there was a future for you together too. You feel so foolish now you know that’s not true however. Now that you know that this man had never had any intentions of developing a long-term relationship with you. How stupid you’ve been to put so much pressure on the nicer moments between you and not to be more cautious about the darker ones! You unfold your arms and your hands clench upon your lap. You feel teary as you realize that you should have listened to Alice and everyone else who has been uttering caution. But as the disappointment writhes inside you even more, building a nice home for itself in your heart, you growl out angrily, “But one-night stands are fine?” Mycroft’s lips part. You look at him. “You can’t do romantic relationships that require commitment, but one-night stands are fine. Is that what you’re saying?” you ask, and your voice is full of a quiet intensity that’s raging with hurt. 

 

Mycroft doesn’t seem to know what to say. All he seems able to do is scan your face with his eyes, whilst his own emotion is shrouded. 

 

“When did you say that?” you ask him. “How long was it before what happened between us?”

 

Mycroft pulls a bit of a face. “They both happened within less than a year,” he admits, not looking at you. 

 

_“Great,”_ you blurt out, feeling nearly winded as the truth hits home even more, “So I'm supposed to believe that you went from being Mr. I Can’t Do Romantic Relationships to _‘Yes F/N I’ll love you forever,’_ in the space of a few months?”

 

“I never said that.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“I never said that I’d love you forever,” Mycroft says with a quiet firmness without looking at you. 

 

Greg looks like he wishes Mycroft would just shut up and stop making things worse for himself. 

 

“Right,” you huff, standing up, “So that night-that night we made love on your bed, because that’s the version I’d been hoping it was all this time by the way”-Greg winces, but Mycroft remains quite expressionless-“What _exactly_ did you tell me? Did you say _anything?”_ you point angrily at him. “Or am I just right in thinking now that it meant nothing to you?” 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, keeping his head averted from you. He doesn’t reply.

 

_“Right,”_ you get out, taking his reaction in and feeling even more disappointed by it. 

 

“F/N?” Greg’s voice intrudes cautiously on the scene.

 

_“What?”_ you ask him sharply. 

 

“I think you need to sit back down and calm down. We’re attracting attention,” Greg tells you, lowering his hands in a beseeching gesture. 

 

You turn your head frustratedly to see that several plain-clothed detectives are standing up in the main office area, so that they can look in. All of them quickly turn their heads away when you scowl at them. 

 

“Where’s Sally?” you huff out moodily as you turn back around, before you throw yourself down on the chair. Mycroft clears his throat again. 

 

“She’s out working on a case,” Greg informs you evenly, leaning back as his fingers fidget with the top of some paperwork that’s on his desk. They lift it up and bend it a little. “Contrary to what it currently feels like this is a fully-operational police station, not a hub to help strained couples”-

 

“We’re _not_ a couple,” you interrupt him, casting Mycroft a dark glance, before you look away from him again. 

 

“Be that as it may I have some advice for you both on what I think you should do next.” He pauses. When neither Mycroft nor you beg him to stop he goes on, “You can come back later to see Sally if you want. That’s fine. I have absolutely no objection to that as long as you’re calm. But right now I think both of you should get out of here, go off somewhere, have lunch and try and be more understanding with one another.” You scowl. “All right?” Greg prompts. 

 

Mycroft and you are silent for the longest of times until finally Mycroft says, “I suppose there are worse ideas.” You nod grudgingly when both men tentatively look at you. 

 

“Good,” Greg huffs out. 

 

Mycroft and you depart shortly after. You take the car a short distance away to a café where you sit opposite each other on a table that’s in the middle of everything. You order a chicken salad with a raspberry milkshake-you know it’s a contradiction of sorts, but you feel like being contradictory. Whilst Mycroft orders grilled fish with vegetables along with a cup of tea. 

 

You’re glad when your orders arrive because up until then Mycroft and you had just been sat in an uncomfortable silence. You’d filled it by taking some paracetamol. Mycroft had frowned at you doing such a thing, but you’d found that you hadn’t particularly cared. 

 

As soon as your food arrives you tuck in eagerly. That is until you get a little fuller and realize just how depressing and how unsatisfactory the salad is. You stop picking at your limp lettuce and look up. Mycroft’s eaten half of his fish and is now frowning down at his vegetables. He seems to be having the same problem. 

 

“I suppose we could always get some cake to make up for it?” you suggest tentatively because now you’ve calmed down a little you know that you can’t exactly blame Mycroft fully for this. You’d seemed to have slept with him as willingly as he’d done so with you, and, knowing all you do about your past self it’s possible that you’d known that a one night stand was all it was ever going to be. It hurts, but you can’t deny that, that’s the truth of it. Mycroft looks up at you. A glimmer of something flickers in his eyes. You can’t know that he’s thinking that, that’s like something the old you would have said. _“What?”_ you ask him softly, feeling an ache inside you. 

 

Mycroft leans back and stares consideringly at you for a moment, before he looks down thoughtfully at the remainder of his lunch. “Whilst it’s true that this lunch has been a remarkably poor one, and one of the reasons that I don’t usually frequent café’s”- you wince a little at his suggestion that he’s only here because of you and a flare of anger runs through you again. You don’t want him to be anyone but himself, whoever that man might be. Everything is confusing enough as it is-“My thoughtful contemplation was rather more due to the fact that I was wondering how I might be able to make it up to you?” He looks up at you. 

 

You feel annoyed when your heart gives a hopeful jump inside your chest in spite of yourself. “Well,” you say, looking down at your plate, “Cake would be a start.”

 

“F/N you should know that I really didn't”- Mycroft begins. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, looking back up at him. You force a smile onto your face. “At least I know where I stand now.” Mycroft’s eyebrows rise in surprise. You grasp quickly at his hand as you stand to show that there are no hard feelings. “I’ll just pop into the bathroom,” you tell him, when what you really want to say is, _‘I get that you never wanted me in that way now. That it happened just perhaps the both of us were lonely. That even if it hadn’t you wouldn't want me in that way any more because I'm different. I'm not the one that looked attractive enough for a one-night stand before. I’ve been stupid I know to hope for anything else.’_

 

As Mycroft watches after you he can’t help but think that you don’t have any clue of where you really stand. That you’ve absolutely no idea of the depths of his feelings. Feelings that he seems unable to express when you’re both around other people. He feels almost sick with his incapability to make you understand. To try and improve things he orders two slices of the biggest, most chocolaty cake that the cafe has.

 

Once you’re back he says, “Have you got any particular ideas about what you’d like to do, before we go back to the police station?” in a fake, cheery tone. 

 

You look at him. You feel a little curious about the voice he’d used. It had sounded so bright, but you know that it had been fake. It makes you feel suspicious of him. “Is there nowhere else that I used to go?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft hesitates. He knows what he should be saying, but he’s suddenly not sure whether he should say it or not. You’re already not on horrifically good terms with him. If you remember everything now then he has the feeling that you wouldn't hesitate to turn your back on him. Suddenly he can hear the thump of his heartbeat pounding in his eardrums and feel both his throat and lips going dry. Your e/c eyes stare back at him. Your lips are almost pursed as you wait for a response. He remembers kissing them, remembers the soft noises that you’d made against him and suddenly he’s blurting out, “You used to go to the morgue on cases sometimes,” and ruining everything for himself again. 

 

He hopes that the word _‘morgue,’_ might put you off, but of course you’re still you, and you still have an almost unhealthy fascination for the macabre. _“Really?”_ you get out. Mycroft’s heart sinks when he hears just how intrigued you sound. He really is an idiot sometimes. Especially when it comes to you. He’s already messed things up and now he’s standing to ruin them even more. 

 

“Yes,” he says tentatively, before he suddenly thinks of something that might save him. “But it was also where you ended up in hospital after the incident, so perhaps”- he breaks off delicately. 

 

You eat a bit more cake, whilst you consider everything. “No,” you finally come out with, “I think that going back there might be a good thing. I mean”-you break off and look at him a little awkwardly-“I haven’t remembered anything much so far. It’s probably best that I go everywhere, whilst I'm here isn't it?” Mycroft nods in spite of himself. “Do you think that you’d be able to get us in the morgue though?” you ask him, “You know, with your _minor_ position and all?” you smile coquettishly without being able to help it.

 

Mycroft’s heart makes an odd fluttering movement inside his chest like a moth that’s been dormant all this time and now wants to escape. He finds that despite his predicament all he can do is smile at you. “I'm sure I’ll be able to figure out something.”

 

You go back to eating your cake quite happily, and as you do Mycroft wishes that he hadn’t told you the morgue is at the same hospital where you’d stayed because than he could have taken you to another morgue instead and pretended that, that was the relevant one. No one would have known him, but he could have probably pulled it off. You would have been expecting him to pull off a bit of trickery anyway, and that would have only make it even easier. He sighs. He knows that in the end even if that had been the case though he would have probably just ended up doing the right thing because that’s the sort of person that, when it comes down to it, he is. Especially when it comes down to you. With Sherlock and his family being the other exceptions of course. 

 

You feel bad when you hear Mycroft sigh. “Mycroft?” you say as you look back at him, “Everything is all right between us now isn't it? I think I’d be sad if we couldn't even be friends.”

 

Mycroft’s heart gives a painful twinge, both at your words and at the sight of the chocolate cake that smears your lips. “Yes my dear,” he says, “Of course it is.”

 

*

 

St. Bartholomew’s hospital is just a short walk from the café, and so rather than taking the car again Mycroft and you opt to make the journey on foot instead. 

 

He keeps close to you the whole time, and, in a further attempt to reassure yourself that everything is all right between the pair of you, you link your arm with his. He looks at you and gives you another tight smile. Your heart plummets as you sense that something is still not right between you. “Mycroft, is everything”-

 

He squeezes at your arm a little with his, before he places the tips of his fingers delicately upon your hand. You swallow at the same time he clears his throat. Your heart only seems to be moving on every other beat. “Look, over there,” Mycroft says softly with a nod at a tall, long building that’s diagonally across from you and has its back turned towards you. 

 

Your lips part and you turn your head to look. You feel Mycroft stiffen beside you and sense that he’s barely breathing. You’re not sure what the significance of the building is until you notice the ambulance station. You look back at him. You have a greater sense of what the building is now, but you still can’t understand why he’s gone so rigid, _or_ why he seems almost afraid to look at you. He lets out a little breath, before he does so properly. “Is that the hospital?” you ask. Mycroft nods. Again you can’t understand why he’s got such an odd look in his eyes. You realize that it looks like fear at the same time that it starts to drizzle. 

 

“Dear me,” Mycroft mutters, slipping his arm out of yours and fiddling with his umbrella. “I was rather hoping that it wouldn't rain. Just wait one moment, whilst I get this up.”

 

You make a sound to show that you’ve heard him and smile, feeling a little relieved by his activity, before your gaze goes absent-mindedly back to the hospital again. As it does so it’s like you’re suddenly looking at a new slide underneath a microscope. The drizzle seems to get worse. A whoosh of breath leaves your mouth as the dull colours in front of you seem to fade. Mycroft, still tugging at his umbrella, fails to notice. The noise of the traffic, whilst still there, reduces to a low hum in your mind. Then everything-the noise, the colours, the red double-decker, which breaks up the grey, the light that bursts through the dark clouds-seems to slam into you. You stagger back. Mycroft, with the umbrella now up at last, looks at you just at the very same time that your words about how the rain makes you remember Sherlock’s fall comes back to him. But all your eyes can see is a figure in a dark coat falling from the roof. Limbs and the flap of the coat spiral through the air. You let out a scream, before you rush out instinctively into the road. 

 

Mycroft lets out a little cry of panic and lunges forwards, grabbing you around the middle. His umbrella slips out of his hand and falls victim to a passing car. There’s an angry hoot of a horn in response, but Mycroft ignores both things as he pulls you back, whirls you around and slams you up against the side of the closest building. Passing people glance at you both curiously. No one stops. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft breathes, his hands on your shoulders to keep you back as he takes you in. Your head is tilted off to one side. Your mouth is open and you’re gasping at intervals, whilst your breathing is quite uneven. But it is when Mycroft sees your eyes roll into the back of your head that he exclaims, “Good heavens!” Realizing that he can’t possibly deal with this alone he reaches for his phone clumsily with one hand, whilst he keeps hold of you with his other. 

 

You seem to come back into some sort of reality when he loosens his grip on you. “What are you doing?” you yell when you see him before you. You push against him and he pushes you back with his shoulder. “Your brother-your _brother_ fell from the roof! You have to”- the colour drains from Mycroft’s face and you use his momentary distraction to slam your hands hard against his chest in frustration, before you attempt to throw yourself forwards. Mycroft’s phone goes flying out of his hand at the same time that he pushes you back. He swings his head to follow its progress across the pavement worriedly. “You have to help him!” you shriek, overcome with panic. Mycroft pushes you back with both hands again, before he makes the quick decision to dart off to the side and swipe his phone up off the pavement. He can’t risk losing it, it’s too important. He makes it back to you just in time to push you against the wall again and stop you from hurting yourself. He eyes you worriedly. Your face is pale and your eyes swim with tears as you look at him. “Why aren't you helping him?” you choke out, shaking your head in confusion. “Why aren't you helping your brother?” Mycroft doesn’t know what to say to that. In the end he just draws your head to his shoulder with a heavy heart. You resist him for a moment. “I-I don’t”- you say, struggling against him and shaking your head for a moment, before you finally push it against his shoulder. You cry and snuffle there for a moment, whilst your fingers scrape against his jacket. You don’t get this. You don’t get this and you don’t like it. You wish that you could forget what you’ve just seen. Your body begins to shake all the more the more panicked and worked up that you get. 

 

Mycroft holds you to him securely, cupping at your hair with his hand. He calls his driver. “Yes Harry, I’d like you to pick us up. We’re not far from St. Bartholomew’s. Around the back by the ambulance station”-you shift against him again-“Yes, that’s right.” He disconnects the call with a click, slides the phone back into his pocket and returns to holding you. 

 

When you let out a little gurgle against his shoulder he pushes you back from him to see that your face is scrunched up and that your eyes are shut tightly. You shake your head as if you’re fighting off a bad thought. You seem to be remembering something. 

 

When the car comes Mycroft finds it a challenge just to get you inside. He has to push and prod at you, coaxing you all the while. You let out a bit of a whimper as you finally fall back against the seat, and as soon as Mycroft slides in beside you, straightening you up and tugging a seatbelt across you, your hands reach searchingly into the air. He takes the middle seat so that he can be beside you and turns his body towards you, before he takes both of your hands in his in an attempt to steady you. You turn your head towards him, but you do not open your eyes. 

 

“Home please Harry,” Mycroft instructs the driver, glancing away from you for a moment. The driver hesitates and looks at the hospital building. Clearly he thinks that you might be better off in there instead. _“Home,”_ Mycroft repeats. 

 

“Y-Yes Sir,” Harry finally says, checking his wing mirrors, before he pulls out into the stretch of traffic. 

 

You seem to lose all sense of yourself again in the car. Your mind seems to have no room for anything else, but the painful memories of the past that you’re currently re-living. 

 

Mycroft can’t tell whether it’s drizzle or tears that are against your cheeks. 

 

When you begin to mutter something unintelligible he tightens his grip on both of your hands and draws his head down close to yours. “Shh, shh,” he murmurs, trying to soothe you even though his own heart jumps in panic. “It’s all right”-

 

_“Mycroft?”_ you say his name suddenly, your eyes flickering open, before they close again as if you’ve been blinded. You shake your head. “No, no, Mycroft’s gone,” you whimper, as if reminding yourself. Tears spill beneath your shut eyes, dampening your eyelashes. You shake your head violently. 

 

Mycroft lets go of your hands so that he can steady you. “I'm right here,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear desperately. Harry looks into the windscreen mirror. “I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere.” Harry realizes, as he sees how wide and pleading his boss’s eyes are that not only is Mycroft in love, but that he is also helplessly terrified in that moment and he doesn’t know how to deal with it all. Mycroft’s hand slips onto your shoulder. 

 

“Is it still all right to be going home?” Harry asks. 

 

Mycroft starts at the sudden interruption and his hand jumps off your shoulder, before it goes back there again. “Yes God damn you, just get us home!” Mycroft reacts without thinking. You let out a bit of a whimper and Mycroft’s attention goes back to you. “Shh, shh, it’s all right F/N,” he says as if he’s soothing a child, “I didn't mean to…please understand.” He says the last part so softly that Harry doesn’t hear.

 

Instead the driver focuses fully on the road again and concentrates on getting you both home.

 

Once you’re there and parked in the driveway Mycroft wraps one of your arms around his shoulders and heaves you out of the car. Harry helps him take you to the door, and then, as soon as it is open Mycroft dismisses his driver and begins to half-carry you upstairs. You spout a stream of incoherent things along the way. 

 

Mycroft gets you to your room and lays you gently down on the bed. You wriggle into a sideways position and thrash upon the duvet. Your face is blotchy, flushed red. Your eyes are still tightly shut and your face is scrunched up as if you’re in pain. Mycroft leans back and looks at you worriedly. He doesn’t like seeing you like this. He gets your shoes off so that you don’t end up accidentally hurting yourself. Then he just watches and paces. Should he call Greg? Fetch a doctor? _Someone?_ Or is this all just a perfectly normal part of the process as a greater amount of memories return to you? Will you actually be all right in a few moments? Another stream of babble that doesn’t make sense leaves your mouth. Your body thrashes. Your hands punch the duvet sideways. Mycroft chews anxiously on his lip, nearly drawing blood as his eyes focus on you. He feels horrifically helpless and vulnerable. Nothing has ever prepared him for seeing you like this. He can’t bear to just stand watching any more, so, in a sudden fit of activity he drags the floral patterned seat across to your bedside and sits down upon it with a thump. Your face is close to his as he leans forward. It shines with sweat. As you let out a bit of a whimper a shiver runs through you and Mycroft wants to grasp at your hand. He doesn’t though. He’s afraid that if he touches you, you’ll lash out or it will only make things worse. As his eyes fix studiously upon yours his mind frantically tries to come up with some coherent way that he can explain to you his role in your unhappiness, and more importantly of his feelings. If he can just _convince_ you of them! Of the feelings that he’s struggled to get out all day. But every possible sentence and way of explaining peters out every time you shift or let out a sound. Every time you do Mycroft finds himself holding his breath. He both desperately does and does not want you to open your eyes. He wants to know that you’re all right and that you’ve come out on the other side of all this, but at the same time he knows that when you open them and see him there your e/c eyes will no doubt fill with hatred. 

 

He’s not wrong. When your eyes finally flutter open almost half-an-hour later at the same time a whoosh of breath leaves your mouth they latch onto him for merely a moment, before you make the choice to scramble back from him. 

 

“Be”-

 

_“Don’t,”_ you interrupt him, not wanting him to tell you to ‘be careful’ or to say anything else that will make it seem like he cares in that moment. Not when you know the truth and it rages around tight inside you. All the hurt you’re currently feeling acts like the eye of a storm. Mycroft’s lips part and his hand reaches to grasp yours. “Get away from me,” you exclaim, swinging away from him until you come to be nearly sitting on the edge of the bed with your back facing him. Your chest heaves with all of your breaths. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft utters, his hand falling to the duvet. 

 

“No”- tears spill down your cheeks. 

 

“I”-

 

“You left me _alone!”_ you snap, your head swinging off to one side. You hear Mycroft’s breath catch in his chest behind you as your words slash him with the strength of a whip. You crawl around until your legs are off to the side of you. You look at him. “Not just you,” you utter. “You _all_ did! Sherlock jumped. He was gone. John moved out and wouldn't even come and visit because it was so painful. You wouldn't even talk to me. I fell out with Sally…” your eyes look down at your legs rather than at him as you trail off. “One day I felt like I was one of the luckiest people in the world. I had mad but great friends. I got to go on these amazing cases, do these amazing things, write hopefully better scripts because of them, and then”- you break off and look back at him as something comes back to you. “You said that I was liked,” you huff, “That I was _loved_ by my friends, but that must have been just a load of rubbish because you all abandoned me without a second’s thought. Like I was _nothing!”_ You let out a breath and swallow, before you pant, “Mrs. Hudson and Greg. They were the only ones who-who I could talk to. They were the _only_ ones who actually gave a damn! Who actually listened to what _I_ was going through”-

 

“F/N, I”-

 

_“What?”_ you interrupt him mockingly. “Am I wrong? Has my mind patched things back together in the wrong way? Did all of that _not_ happen? Did you _not_ abandon me?” 

 

Mycroft’s head droops. He thinks quickly for a moment as his eyes skim his knees. “No,” he admits finally, looking back up at you. “All of that happened, but”-

 

_“What?_ Are you going to say that you didn't mean to do it? That you didn't _mean_ to ignore me in the street? That you didn't mean to just completely blank me when I yelled at you that this wasn't my fault? That really you meant to tell me all along that hey, your brother wasn't dead, but you just forgot? That you did such a thing because you were too busy parading around pretending that you only had a minor position in the British Government?” You let out a little breath, before you think of something again. “Did you only bring me back here, so that you could keep an eye on me and try and stop me from remembering?” 

 

Mycroft swallows. He wants to try and answer your final question somehow, for he senses that, that’s the most important thing, but at the same time he’s not sure how to. All of this is happening so fast. He just wants a few moments to think it all through, so that he can give you the response he wants to give you, the response you _deserve._ In the end though he decides to ignore that point for the moment and ask, “If you can remember all of that now then surely you must remember how bad Moriarty was too?” He tries to remain calm. You stare at him because that is one of the things that _hasn’t_ come back to you. _“F/N?”_ Mycroft pushes, leaning forwards.

 

You look down. The stubborn part of you doesn’t want to tell him that you still don’t remember every single detail of your past, but the realistic part of you can see that you don’t have much choice. “Surely one man can’t be that bad?” you look up at him. Mycroft’s lips twist with something uncomfortable. _“What?”_ you ask, this time being the one to press him. 

 

Mycroft swallows. “James Moriarty is…” he struggles, “The biggest security risk to our nation. He is a threat to my brother, to me, to you, to us all.” He pauses to find that you’re still looking at him rather blankly. He scrubs at his face. To you he suddenly looks pale, tired and troubled. “My brother explained it once. He compared Moriarty to a spider that’s right at the heart of a web dealing with illicit activities. He concocted a scheme that would both bring my brother to his knees and push him to his limit. Sherlock and I could see where things were going and so we came up with our own plan. Sherlock faking his own death was the only way that he could go undercover and attempt to pick off Moriarty’s men one by one”-

 

_“ ‘Pick off?’”_ you take issue. 

 

“They were murderers F/N,” Mycroft informs you, “They would have killed Mrs. Hudson and you as easily as any grown man. _Children_ were even used”-

 

“Yes, I remember,” you scrunch your face up, feeling uncomfortable. 

 

Mycroft looks at you consideringly. “Do you re-call anything about the masquerade ball?”

 

You think that he’s referring to the pair of you sleeping together and you shake your head with a frown. Something flickers inside Mycroft’s eyes. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“Quite a lot as it happens.” You look up at him. He clears his throat. “Up until then it was largely believed that Moriarty was dead. Sherlock and I had issue with the idea, but kept it to ourselves. At the ball however Moriarty approached you”-you let out a breath-“He even tricked you into dancing with him, before he revealed his identity to you. You informed me of his return the following morning.” 

 

You fold both your arms and legs and look at him suspiciously. “If he was so dangerous then why didn't I tell you straight away? And why aren't you out there helping Sherlock with something if he’s back? Or are you ignoring him now instead of me?” 

 

“I'm not ignoring anyone,” Mycroft frowns. “As for your first question I believe that you either didn't want to face the fact that he was back, or that you got distracted by-by other things that happened that night.” You look at him darkly. He shifts closer to you and your eyes flash warningly at him. He huffs out a frustrated breath and moves away again. “Surely you can see why I never told you that Sherlock was still alive?”

 

“As we've already established today”-you fold your arms even more tightly-“I'm a goldfish, so you’re going to have to explain it to me.”

 

To your satisfaction Mycroft looks momentarily regretful, before he responds, “I had to make it look like my brother was dead. People had to actually believe that he was. To pull that off it was vital that only a few people knew”-

 

_“Who?”_ you interrupt. 

 

“The issue isn't _‘who,’”_ Mycroft huffs out impatiently, “It’s _‘why’”-_

 

“No, I'm the one asking the questions,” you cut him off cattily, “And the issue to me _is_ ‘who.’ Who knew about all this? Who was deemed _more_ important to know about this than I was?” 

 

Mycroft swallows. “There was myself and Sherlock of course”-you make an impatient sound as if to tell him to get on with it-“Our parents”-another impatient sound-“A few members of my brother’s homeless network, and Molly Hooper”-

 

_“Molly Hooper?”_ you exclaim. 

 

“We couldn't have done it without her,” Mycroft protests rather awkwardly. 

 

_“Oh?_ I suppose you gave her a one-night stand to thank her for that did you?” you ask scathingly. 

 

“I most certainly did not,” Mycroft splutters, drawing himself up and looking ruffled by the idea. “In any case it’s Sherlock that she harbours desires for”- he can’t help but say. 

 

_“Oh._ So _he_ gave her a one-night stand did he?”

 

“No one gave anyone anything,” Mycroft retorts, running a hand frustratedly through his hair. “In any case the point that I'm trying to make is that it was vital for the success of the operation that”-

 

“Oh stuff the success of the operation,” you mutter darkly, swinging your legs off the bed, before you stand up. You find that you’ve had enough of listening to him. 

 

Mycroft stands up too. _“I”-_

 

“You know what?” you interrupt, turning back to him. “After you basically admitted earlier that you’re one for one-night stands, but not real romantic relationships I should have seen this coming. I don’t even know why I'm surprised by the fact that you’re capable of being so cold.”

 

Mycroft takes a step towards you. “Perhaps you’re surprised because you know deep down that I just did what I had to. To protect my brother. To protect”-

 

“Don’t you dare say that you were trying to protect me! I mean nothing to you! You’re cold-hearted and I’ve learnt now that I should stay as far away from you as I can.” Mycroft takes another step forwards. “You heard me!” you say, moving away from him and gesturing that he should back the hell away from you. “I don’t want you anywhere near me right now.”

 

A ripple of despair flickers across Mycroft’s face. He raises his hands in supplication. “You must let me”-

 

“No,” you huff out. “I want you to leave the room. If you want to do anything then you can call Sally and tell her to come and see me. I’d like to talk to her.”

 

“F/N, I appreciate that you’re angry”-you let out a mocking laugh-“But this is all in the past. You've forgiven both Sally and I once already. _Why”-_

 

“You might have forgotten, but this might as well be my present and you are not going to tell me how I'm supposed to be feeling or what I should be doing right now.”

 

Mycroft and you stare steadily at one another for a moment. 

 

_“Fine,”_ Mycroft finally gets out, giving a respectful bow of his head, before he quickly moves out of the room. 

 

You pace angrily around the room, your body thrumming and your mind thinking about it all, whilst Mycroft’s soft voice floats up to you from downstairs. Finally he gets off the phone. You sit down haughtily at the bottom of the bed. 

 

“She’ll be around as soon as possible,” Mycroft calls up to you. “She’s just got to finish something off at work.”

 

_“Good,”_ you huff back. 

 

You hear Mycroft pad away from the bottom of the stairs and then a silence descends. You spend it by looking broodingly at the carpet. 

 

Mycroft meanwhile paces anxiously around the kitchen. He can’t concentrate on anything. All he’s aware of is a greater need to stem the panic that’s growing steadily inside him and to fix things with you. He can’t lose you. He can’t let things end like this. He has to do something, but what? Nothing helpful comes to his mind. 

 

Finally the doorbell rings. 

 

Mycroft lets out a little steadying breath, moves swiftly down the narrow hallway and opens the door. His face naturally falls into a frown when he sees Sally standing there. “Donovan. F/N is upstairs,” he murmurs. She nods, but her eyes are dark and the scowl she wears is just as heavy as his frown. “There’s no point in looking at me like that,” he informs her, “You too are one of the reasons why F/N is in the state she is.”

 

“Oh, I don’t deny it,” Sally says, roughly pushing past him, “But I think we both know who’s the _more_ culpable,” she adds as she turns briefly back to him, before she moves upstairs. 

 

Mycroft watches after her in distaste, before he closes the door and returns to the kitchen. 

 

You’re still staring at the carpet when you hear Sally’s voice. _“F/N?”_ she says. You turn your head to see that she’s peering around the door tentatively at you. You stand up. “Look,” she says, coming inside, “I know that to you it might feel like we haven’t had this discussion before, but we have. I'm not going to argue with you about it again.” You stare at her out of narrowed, distrusting eyes. She waves her hands and gives you a bit of a tight, yet determined smile. “All I'm going to say is that I was just doing my job. There was reason to believe that Sherlock was involved and that version of it seemed to make sense to me. But I thought about it, I didn't just go running off to tell the boss as soon as it popped into my head. No matter how much I hate the freak I knew what a serious accusation it was. I also knew how bad it would make the force look for trusting him. But Lestrade asked and I told him. I had no idea where it would lead to, _and,_ whilst we’re on the subject, you might like to remember that Lestrade, for all him giving Sherlock a chance, listened to me. So, when it came down to it, he was just as quick to condemn the freak as the rest of us were. No one’s perfect F/N and there’s more people to blame in this than just me.” You shift uncomfortably. You want to yell and rage at her, but you know that she’s right. There _are_ more people to blame. _“Now,”_ she jerks her thumb downstairs, “What’s he said about it all?”

 

You sit on the bed. “Just some crap about how he was trying to protect me.” Sally sits down beside you. “So many other people knew. If he really cared about me than he could have just told me. Two years,” you shake your head. “What kind of person just lets someone suffer for two years and then doesn’t even try and explain themselves when things got a bit better? You’re right,” you look at her. “He’s cold and that’s so much of who he is, who he’s _become,_ that I don’t think he could change it even if he wanted to.” You rub at your nose a little and sniff. “I found out that even he himself once admitted that he’s not capable of having a long-term relationship.” You cry a little as your gaze falls to your knees and Sally rubs at your back. “I thought for a moment that something might…I guess I dared hope,” you swallow and look at her again. “I mean you were wrong before”-Sally’s hand freezes on your back and she looks at you seriously-“We did sleep together. Your theory about how we argued and all that was wrong. I knew as soon as I came here to this house that we’d done so and the fact that I was wearing Mycroft’s clothes the following morning didn't add up either. We slept together, but obviously it didn't mean very much. Mycroft said that he told me that we should make out as if we hadn’t and as if we’d argued because Moriarty was back but”-

 

_“What?”_ Sally asks urgently, looking at you. 

 

You shrug her hand off your back and cast her a dark gaze. “Why does everyone do that? What’s really so bad about”-

 

“F/N,” Sally stands up, “Is it true? Is that what he said? Moriarty’s back?” 

 

“I-yeah,” you nod. 

 

Sally swings her head away and paces back and forth. 

 

You watch her confusedly for a moment. “What is it?” you ask. 

 

She stops and turns back to you. She closes her eyes momentarily and runs a hand through her hair. You can’t know that she’s thinking, _not again._ “I think, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been wrong about Mycroft all this time, or at least about how he feels for you.”

 

“What are you on about? You were right. He’s cold. I should just”-

 

“No F/N,” Sally tells you. You look at her. “Don’t you understand?” she waves her hands. “He was clearly protecting you by telling you to tell me that, so if he protected you then, then maybe”-

 

“Look,” you stand up, “Even if he protected me one time that doesn’t change anything”-

 

“Doesn't it?” Sally asks. 

 

_“No!”_ you exclaim. “Mycroft’s still treated me more cruelly than I’ve ever been treated before in my life. Even if he protected me one time it doesn’t change any of that! I hate him! He’s a bastard!” Sally opens her mouth. “I want you to go”-

 

_“F/N.”_

 

“No,” you shake your head, your emotions wavering inside you, “I’ve talked to you enough.” You look away from her. “I thought you of all people would understand how I feel about Mycroft. That you’d get why my response is what it is, but…” you trail off and shake your head again. 

 

Sally nods and swallows, before she leaves. You hear the clatter of her feet going downstairs, hear her exchange a quick word with Mycroft-she doesn’t apologize of course for her attitude towards him, rather she just leaves him feeling as if he’s being mocked when she confirms, in answer to his question, that everything has been sorted out quickly between her and you-and then the sound of the door opening and closing comes, before silence descends once more. 

 

You swallow and hesitate. But in the end, after a few moments of getting yourself together, you do what you feel is necessary and move downstairs. 

 

Mycroft leaves the kitchen and enters the hallway at the exact same time that you do. For a moment you just face one another and look at each other as if you’re in a modern version of some Western. He takes in the tears that are drying upon your cheeks and how your eyes shine with all the hurt that you’ve been through. Whilst you take in the uncertain expression that’s upon his face and how his lips instinctively part when he sees you. 

 

“I want to go home,” you announce. 

 

“I'm not sure if”- Mycroft hesitates. 

 

“You _promised,”_ you force out, “You promised that I could go home whenever I wanted to. Or was that just another thing that you didn't mean?” you challenge. 

 

“I know that I promised,” Mycroft concedes; before he’s brave enough to add, “But be reasonable”-your eyes flash. Reasonable is the last thing that you feel like being towards him right now-“It’s getting late, it’s not the right weather to use the helicopter”-you suddenly become aware of the rain and wind that’s battering against the windows-“And if we took the car then it would be absolute hours, before we’d get there.” He pauses and shifts his position a little, before he admits a little forlornly, “I don’t think that it’s wise for us to spend hours in such close proximity right now.”

 

“You don’t have to come. I’d be quite happy if it was just me and the driver.”

 

“I'm sure,” Mycroft acknowledges, before he looks suddenly a little awkward as he replies, “But I made a promise to your parents, and I'm nearly certain that they’re expecting me to be the one to bring you home.”

 

_“Fine!”_ you blurt out, looking around a little, before you fix your eyes back on him. “I’ll stay here tonight. But I want you to take me back first thing tomorrow. If you don’t then I’ll find my own way.” You look away from him again, before you confess, “I should have never left Wales. I would have been happier being confused and ignorant there than having to deal with all this.” When you look back at him your eyes are full of tears. 

 

Mycroft’s heart feels heavy as he looks at you. “I shall take you back tomorrow,” he confirms. 

 

You look at him suspiciously for a moment, before, apparently satisfied; you turn around and make your way back to the stairs. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft asks, moving swiftly after you. He’s worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to talk to you now than he’ll never get a better chance. 

 

You hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. One foot hovers over the first step. “I don’t want to talk to you,” you tell him firmly. 

 

Undeterred Mycroft comes even closer to you. “Don’t you think that we should? If you just gave me a chance to”-

 

You huff out a breath and turn back around to face him. “Look,” you say with both feet now back on level ground, angry that you’ll have to explain yourself, “All I want to do now is go upstairs, take some paracetamol and get some rest”-

 

“I don’t think you should be taking any more medicine,” Mycroft interrupts, shifting his position. “I think you’re beginning to rely on it too much.”

 

His words make you feel even angrier. “Look,” you tell him, shifting your own position and stomping your feet as you do so. “I’ve got a headache and you’re just making it even worse, so I want to get some relief for it. Besides, its been ages since I took the last one”-

 

“I think you’ll find that altogether it hasn’t really been that long,” Mycroft comments coolly. 

 

“Well, I'm sure it won’t hurt for once,” you tell him irritably with a scowl. With that you turn around with a flourish and begin to make your way back upstairs. 

 

Mycroft darts forwards and places one of his hands on the banister. “F/N, I really don’t think it wise”-

 

“I'm doing this,” you say, stopping as you come to the corner of the stairs, but not looking around again. 

 

“Why do you feel the need to be so silly and risk your health”-

 

“Why do _I_ feel the need?” you ask him in a dangerous tone. Your eyes flash as you whirl around to face him. “I'm amazed that you even feel the need to ask me that.”

 

Mycroft shifts his position. “I'm sure if you just had something to eat then”-

 

“I'm not hungry,” you interrupt, “Food might make you feel better, but it doesn’t have the same effect on me,” and with that you turn around and disappear around the corner of the stairs. Mycroft hears a door slam a moment later. 

 

He frowns up at where you’d once been, before he moves towards the kitchen. He’s sure that despite what you’d just said you _are_ hungry, and that giving you something to eat will put you closer to the frame of mind that you need to be in to have a sensible conversation about all this. He starts fixing up the dinner. 

 

Upstairs, after taking the paracetamol with no water, you pace around restlessly for a little while, before you throw yourself fully clothed onto the bed and turn onto your side. 

 

Once Mycroft’s got the dinner-chicken breast with Mediterranean vegetables and white wine-out onto the table he looks at it a little anxiously for a moment, taking in how the plates are exactly in the centre of the burgundy table mats and how the cutlery are neatly beside them. Then, when he thinks that everything is as perfect as it can be, he puts the blue and white checked dishcloth that he’d used to help take the plates to the table back where it’s kept, before he hurries upstairs. 

 

He chooses the worst possible moment. Your tears have only just started to come, and as soon as you hear his presence on the other side of the door the hiccup that had been forming in your chest stills and your body stiffens. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft begins softly, “Dinner’s waiting downstairs for you”-

 

“I told you I'm not hungry,” comes your defensive choked voice, and Mycroft cannot know just how much you curse yourself for not getting out the words all calm and evenly. 

 

Mycroft swallows and shifts his position. “That was a while ago,” he attempts, “I thought that eating something might make you feel better. Thought that we might be able to have a bit of a conversation, whilst we”-

 

“I told you I'm not hungry,” your voice comes even more insistently. 

 

Mycroft bites at his lip. “Perhaps if I were to bring it up on a tray for you then?” he asks, for although it’s not exactly what he wants you eating right now is more important to him than him having a conversation with you.

 

“I don’t want anything”-

 

“F/N, it’s important that you eat. You need to keep your strength up. I told your parents”-

 

“Oh stop pretending that you care,” you interrupt him scornfully, lifting your head up.

 

“I'm not, I do”-

 

“Just go away,” you tell him, putting your head down again and wriggling into a more comfortable position. 

 

Mycroft swallows and goes downstairs. A few moments later he returns upstairs, placing the tray that has your dinner and wine upon it down just outside your door. “Your dinner’s here,” he informs you softly, “Please eat it before it gets cold.” 

 

You make a sound of irritation to show that you’ve heard him, and Mycroft’s heart sinks at the fact that you’re now not even saying one word to him. 

 

He slinks back downstairs dejectedly, before he attempts to eat his own dinner. It doesn’t hold his interest. All he keeps thinking about is you. He keeps picturing you upstairs alone, dwelling on it all, perhaps making yourself ill over it, and the food that he tries to swallow ends up nearly choking him rather than acting as comfort. He stands up, pushes a piece of food that’s got wedged in between his teeth out with his tongue, swallows it and goes to begin clearing up. He can’t bear to eat any more. 

 

Upstairs you ignore the tempting smell of food that wafts through the door and lie there fuming instead. Who the hell does Mycroft think he is? How dare he pretend to care! How dare he try and use your parents as a reason for you to eat! How dare he constantly lecture you about your use of paracetamol! As if he’d give a damn if anything happened to you when he’d abandoned you so easily before! All he’d probably care about is the momentary inconvenience that it would cause him. 

 

You roll onto your other side and continue to curse the man whose house you are stuck in. You curse his blue eyes. You curse his auburn hair. You curse every inch of him, before you curse the grandness of this house. You curse all of its posh furnishings and curse the stupid little details you’ve noticed in your stay here like the fact that Mycroft has his name on all of the towels. Damn it all! 

 

You hear Mycroft coming upstairs about an hour later. Hear him sighing when he sees that you have not touched either your dinner or wine. You hear the slight chink of crockery as he picks the tray up. You hear him padding carefully back downstairs with it a moment later. Then, thinking that you’re safe, you go back to your thought. A moment later however he’s back, breathing softly just outside your door. You wish he’d say something instead of just standing there like that. 

 

“F/N?” he finally grants you your wish, “Can I get you anything? A snack perhaps? Or a drink of some kind?” 

 

You imagine yourself saying, _‘No.’_ Imagine the soft word floating all the way across to him and causing him to sigh again. In the end you don’t say anything. 

 

Mycroft waits for a moment, before he goes downstairs. 

 

Your tears come. Tears that wish everything wasn't like this. That you could forget again. 

 

You fall asleep for a little while and when you wake it is dark. You’re cold and you forget where you are for a moment, before you remember everything again. Remember how alone you’d felt just after Sherlock had fell and how alone you feel now, as a result of the fact that everyone else has already moved on from it all, whilst to you it seems fresh and new again. Your throat is dry and you sit up groggily. You listen, but all is silent. You don’t feel like eating, but you could really do with a drink right now. You stare at the clock in the dark. It’s a little after one. Mycroft will surely be in bed. You’ll probably be safe to sneak down and get a quick glass of water. 

 

Still, your heart beats unevenly and your breath catches in your throat as you swing clumsily out of bed and pad awkwardly to the door. It takes a couple of goes to find it, and each time your hand scrabbles against something that isn't it you curse yourself. You’re still not used to the room, _or_ to the house. 

 

Finally you escape the confines of your room and move across the landing stealthily. No light comes from Mycroft’s room and downstairs seems equally as dark. He must be asleep. Feeling relieved that your efforts so far haven’t been in vain you move towards the stairs and carefully begin your descent, partly relying on the banister and your instinct to guide you. The third step you settle on creaks, and your breath catches uncomfortably in your throat as you dart down to the next one. You listen hard, but apart from the sounds you’ve made and how your heart pounds in your eardrums as a result you can’t hear anything. You finish the descent in silence. 

 

You scurry down the narrow hallway, keeping close to the side like a rat, before you finally emerge in the kitchen. Much to your horror a ball of light burns through the transparent partition, spilling towards you. Mycroft is up, and in the next moment he appears on the other side. He’s bringing back an empty glass that had once contained scotch back to the kitchen. He stops dead once he sees you. You stagger back at the same time he removes the screen as an obstacle between you. 

 

_“F/N”-_

 

You let out a gasp of anxiety, before you fail to do anything more than just take him in. You’d thought that he’d looked old when he’d come to wake you this morning, but he seems to have aged at least five years since then. Lines of worry crease his face. Tiredness hangs all around him, and his blue eyes, which are dull with exhaustion, only shine with the faintest of renewed lights as he looks back at you. 

 

He passes through into the kitchen. “F/N”-

 

Both the sound of his movement and voice jolt you back into life and send you scrambling around, before you rush back towards the stairs. You nearly trip a couple of times, both on your way to and up them. 

 

“F/N, please be”- Mycroft begins, following after you. Your frantic pants drown the rest of his words out in your desperateness to get away from him. 

 

You manage to slam the bedroom door shut behind you just as he reaches the landing. 

 

Mycroft sighs but moves towards your room anyway. “Can I come in?” he asks. 

 

“N-No,” you say, before you feel alarmed by the possibility that he might just do so anyway. 

 

Mycroft does not go in. He can hear from your one word alone how very panicked you are and he does not wish to make things any more difficult between you. Instead he huffs out a breath, presses his ear to the door, and listens to the slight creak that comes as you sit on the bed and put your back against the headboard. He cannot see the way that you turn your head and the way that your mistrustful eyes stare at the door, but he can imagine the mix of wariness and hate that spills from them. 

 

“I’d like to talk to you,” he confesses. Silence. Another sigh escapes him. He turns his back on the door, before he slides down it to the floor. The door gives a rattle as he does so, and he cannot see how it makes you bite at your lip. He lets his hands drop over the incline of his knees and tilts his head back against the door. “I wish you’d let me in,” he begins softly. “I know talking won’t change a thing. It won’t change what I did, _or_ how lonely you felt.” He sighs again. “But what I said earlier was true you know F/N. It might seem astonishing considering the way that you’re currently feeling, but there was a time not so long ago when you’d forgiven me for all of this, a time when you understood, when you declared that you loved me”-

 

“I can’t imagine ever telling you such a thing,” you get out scornfully, and it sends out an injection of pain through Mycroft’s heart to hear you talking in such a dismissive manner about it all.

 

“It might be hard to believe, but it’s true. You said it right into my mouth. I could hardly _believe”-_

 

“You’re lying,” you shake your head, whilst tears bloom beneath your eyes. 

 

“I'm not,” Mycroft says firmly, and you feel your heart skipping a beat. He says something else, but you cannot hear it. 

 

_“What?”_ you ask, more curious than angry now as you swing off the bed. It causes a creak as you do so. You pause, whilst Mycroft holds his breath. You swallow and begin to move cautiously towards the door, resting your fingers tentatively against it.

 

Feeling slightly encouraged by your close proximity Mycroft goes on, “I was just saying that no matter how much what you’re saying now pains me, it is only a small addition to the punishment that I believe I am already serving.” Your breath hitches in your chest and your lips part. You’re just about to ask Mycroft what on earth he means when he goes on, “I sometimes feel as if you losing your memory, and of me now having to explain myself again to you, even though I have already done so, is punishment for what I have put you through. You cannot know how much it pains me to have lost the forgiveness you’ve already once given me, or how much I feel worried about the possibility of not being able to earn it again. But last night you called me honourable and decent, and I am asking you to please allow me to show you that I can be that way again”-

 

“I was wrong last night,” you say in a shaky tone and Mycroft’s heart dips. 

 

“You weren’t,” he says persistently, “I can be that way again if you just give me a chance.” He runs a hand through his hair. There are so many things that he wants to tell you, but he doesn’t know how. 

 

“But you’re not that person as a whole,” you get out, your voice strained, and your hands tremble against the door. “Your own brother practically admitted it. You’re cruel, _cold…_ you must be if you think that it’s all right to just abandon someone like that.” 

 

“It’s true, I am cold, and I know that I come across that way sometimes, b-but my dear, I-I”- he breaks off and huffs out a breath. “Sherlock has never understood me, not properly. Just like Sally he fails to properly appreciate what is in my heart and what I am capable of.”

 

“You’re wrong,” you tell him a little sternly. “Sally may have been against you up until now, but earlier she seemed to change her mind”-

 

“She did?” Mycroft croaks out hopefully. 

 

“Yes,” you swallow. “She seemed to think that because you’d protected me before in telling me to say that we’d argued she’d gotten other things wrong about you too.” Mycroft lets out a soft breath. “Like the fact that you care for me.”

 

“I do.” You let out a disbelieving sound. “You have to understand our night together-well-I, it meant something, just as I told you it did before. A great deal in fact.” You wait, sensing that there’s an addition to his words, but when he goes on it is on a different track, “You were wrong earlier, I should have told you. The thing seemed quite complicated to me at the time, but now it seems quite plain. I did not want to be the one to bring you to London and show you around because I wanted to keep an eye on you, _or_ to stop you from finding out or anything like that. I wanted to do so because I…well, all day I’ve been trying, especially at 221C earlier”-your breath hitches-“Trying to…well”- Mycroft breaks off. His hands fidget together restlessly. “Look what you’ve reduced me to!” he laughs mockingly at himself. “I can’t even get my words out.” He swallows. “But the thing that I'm trying to get you to understand F/N is that for the longest of times I’ve just had my family and my work to think of. There’s been nothing, _no one_ else,” he corrects, before he swallows again. “So if I sometimes get things wrong…” Behind the door you’re beginning to get a little impatient. You just wish that he’d say what you think he might be on the verge of confessing. Every time he starts to speak it seems to be leading down the same path. Yet he only seems capable of going so far down it, before he has to stop and start all over again. “Well, this isn't easy for me, doing all this”-he waves his hands even though you can’t see him, before he closes his eyes again. “Going to the masquerade ball and trying to…well, that wasn't easy for me either,” he breathes. “I suppose, what I'm trying to say to you F/N”-he opens his eyes again and you hold your breath-“Is that I care for you”-your heart sinks-“And because of that I hope that you’ll be able to look back on more than just today and see that.” He swallows and shifts his position. “I know things haven’t always been easy during your time here, but I’ve tried to look after you. I would have rather that you hadn’t found out about the whole goldfish debacle of course”-

 

“So you’d rather that I just know the best about you and fall moon-eyed at your feet, is that it?” you snipe without being able to help it. “That I never find out who you _truly_ are?” 

 

“No, of course not,” Mycroft sighs, “But one of the points that I'm trying to make clear to you is that you already know who I am, or you once did anyway. You knew the person I am, you felt it, I know you did. Just like I know that you were beginning to feel it again yesterday, which is why I feel it’s a shame that”-

 

“Well I'm glad that today happened. I don’t have a clue how you managed to get me to sleep with you before when you’d done all that, but I’d hate to make the same mistake twice”-

 

“F/N use your common sense and remember what I have just told you. It was not a”- 

 

_“Yes,_ yes it was,” you murmur in a tremulous voice, “You might like to also remember that some of us can’t remember everything so easily”-

 

“I know you’re hurting, I know that the last month has been difficult for you”-

 

“Try the last two years!” you exclaim, swiping angrily at your damp eyes.

 

Mycroft momentarily closes his eyes and winces. “All right,” he begins, “The last two years then, but what you have to”-

 

“You have no idea do you? I hate you!” you blurt out and Mycroft’s breath catches in his chest. “I hate you for bringing me here! I hate you for making me remember that awful time when I was so… _lonely!”_

 

“You said”-

 

“I'm only glad to remember it because it showed me the truth about you! The truth I’ve been trying to figure out ever since you brought me here. All the hurt and all the anguish that I felt then and I feel now because of it, well I wish that would just disappear. I wish you would. I wish I’d never met you,” you sob. Mycroft’s throat feels tight, but he gets to his feet automatically and turns towards the door. “I wish I’d never come to London and I wish that I’d never got involved in anything”-

 

“You don’t mean”-

 

“YES I DO!” you roar, and Mycroft flinches and leans back a little at the force of your voice. “Y-You have no idea”-

 

Mycroft moves forwards and places his palms against the door. “I would if you’d just let me in and try and talk to me calmly about all of this.” You make a scoffing sound and turn towards the bed. “F/N, please just let me in. Let us get this sorted.” 

 

“This is not a matter that you can just get sorted Mycroft,” you tell him bitterly as you sit on the edge of the bed, hiccoughing. “You can’t just sign it away and then be done with it. I'm not a piece of paper. I'm not something that you can just control”-

 

“I do not wish to control you. I have every respect for you. I just want you to understand that because of who Moriarty is this is far more complicated than you’re making it out to be.” 

 

You scowl for a moment, before you can’t resist saying, “Sally knows that Moriarty’s back.” 

 

Mycroft sighs, but that is hardly the biggest problem that he has to deal with. “I know you’re angry,” he tells you, acting as if you’d never just spoken, “But I also know that you don’t mean any of what you have just said about hating all and sundry”-you fold your arms and stare at the door, whilst you pout-“You might be feeling upset with London, upset with me, upset with us all right now, but you do not hate it or any of us. I have seen the curiosity that has been inside you today as you both re-discovered and tried to re-connect with yourself. I know that despite the fact that reading John’s blog upset you yesterday it by and large enthralled you. I could see the longing in your eyes as you explained that you don’t think you’ll ever be the same person again. But let me tell you something”-your breaths slowly become more even and your folded arms loosen ever so slightly-“You are still that person. You might not think it, but you are. I know that somewhere deep inside yourself you must know that I did what I did to protect you and that I am very regretful about causing you so much harm. You can shout at me in your loudest voice, but I refuse to accept that you hate London, me or anyone else,” Mycroft finishes, and with that he leaves you sitting on your spot on the bed and returns downstairs. 

 

You spend a lot of the night dwelling over everything and about what Mycroft has said, before you finally fall into a troubled sleep. 

 

You wake early, feeling groggy, hungry and tired, but you force yourself to pack, before you pad tentatively downstairs for breakfast. 

 

Mycroft’s already in the kitchen, but although he puts a bowl of porridge with chopped fruit on its top in front of you and looks at you with the most curious of calculating expressions on his face you don’t say a word. 

 

He sits opposite you, not eating anything of his own and looking at you as if you’re a jigsaw puzzle to solve. You avoid his gaze the entire time by concentrating on your porridge. 

 

“Are you still keen to go home today?” He finally asks. 

 

“Yes,” you respond curtly without looking at him. 

 

You can feel the sigh building in Mycroft’s throat, before he finally releases it. His gaze goes down to the table. He knows he can’t do anything to stop you from returning, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing that he could. 

 

After breakfast you return upstairs and don’t leave again until Mycroft calls to say that the car is waiting outside. 

 

You drag your things down, and aside from saying hello and goodbye to the driver you don’t speak at all. 

 

*

 

“So,” Sally says as she strides into Greg’s office the following morning. The door slams behind her and Greg looks up at her from where he’s been doing some paperwork. _“Moriarty.”_

 

“Ah,” Greg winces. 

 

“Yes,” Sally folds her arms; “Whilst I would normally give you a mouthful for keeping such a thing quiet from me, I'm assuming that, that’s the reason you’ve been on Mycroft’s side this entire time?” Greg just gives her a very awkward half-smile. _“Unbelievable,”_ Sally says, before she strides back out of there.

 

* 

 

Mycroft and you board the helicopter in silence, and though Mycroft spends the journey with his eyes mostly fixed on you, your focus remains resolutely on what’s going on outside the window. 

 

Finally, when you are not far from home and you’re looking at the familiar sight of the Welsh hills outside the window, Mycroft states, “You’ll have perhaps noticed that I did not try and stop you from returning home this morning. I did exactly as you wished.” 

 

You turn your head a fraction, but only make a sound of acknowledgement to show that you’ve heard him. You do not think that he deserves praise for doing such a thing, especially since he had only been sticking to the agreement that you’d originally made. 

 

“Although you being home is probably the best thing for you right now, I feel like it is my duty to warn you that it would be in your best interest to avoid the church”-you swing your head to scrutinize him-“The vicar too”-

 

“Did you not hear what I said on the way down here? I _like_ the church”-Mycroft’s lips part-“When it’s quiet anyway,” you add defensively. “You've taken away every happy feeling that I might have had towards London and made it so that I never want to go back there again. Now you actually have the nerve to try and control where I go and don’t when I get back home too?”-

 

“If you knew”-

 

“If I knew _what?”_ you retort. Mycroft looks anxiously towards the pilot. He wants to explain things clearly to you and try to make you understand, but he’s not sure whether he can do such a thing with the pilot there. “Is there some sort of monster in the church now?” you go on sarcastically. “Are you going to tell me that Moriarty’s there? You know everyone makes a big deal about him, but as far as I can tell you’re the one whose really hurt me, not him. I guess what I'm wondering is whether you’ll be coming to mess up Wales for me too?”

 

“You don’t understand”-

 

“Then tell me,” you interrupt him challengingly. 

 

Again Mycroft looks at the pilot and chews worriedly on his lip for a moment. His focus returns to you. “I have every reason to suspect that the vicar in that church is in league with Moriarty,” he says in a low voice, “In fact, whilst we’re addressing the subject, you should probably be told, for your own good, that Darren was the one responsible for knocking you down in that car, so I just want you to be on your guard.”

 

You feel winded for a moment. Then incredulous. 

 

Mycroft does not know what he’s expecting, but it’s not for you to let out a little scornful laugh. His lips part in anxiety. 

 

“Do you really think that I'm _that_ stupid?” you question. “Am I _less_ than a goldfish now? You might think that I’ve got my head in the clouds, that I may be manipulated just because I'm suffering from memory loss, but you’ve been watching far too many films if you honestly expect me to believe something as ridiculous as that”-Mycroft’s mouth opens wider-“What was it? Were you merely prying rather than trying to comfort me when you were asking me all those questions about the church and Darren before? Did you sense that I’d remember about Sherlock’s fall and that I’d absolutely hate you when I did, so you thought that it was best to come up with some cock-and-bull story about how I can’t even trust the local vicar? Did you think that, that would make me change my mind and want to hurry back to London with you? Did you think that accusing someone who’s been kind to me, and helpful, would make me turn my back on them and suddenly fall in love with you?”

 

“Listen,” Mycroft says, gripping quite suddenly at your arm. You automatically begin to struggle against him in the hope that he might let go of you. He doesn’t. If anything he only pinches at your skin all the more tightly. “This is not about the past. This is about the future and keeping you safe”-you let out a disbelieving scoff-“I have no problem with you returning to Wales. Your family is there and it is understandable that you are drawn to it. All I am asking is for you to stay away from that church and keep your wits about you. If you only listen to one thing I say then please listen to that.” 

 

You finally manage to wrench your arm away. You eye him with stormy eyes, whilst you massage your skin. “You’re mad. You must be. Darren had nothing to do with what happened to me. You’re just trying to”-

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “I thought you’d be stubborn,” he begins as the helicopter begins its descent into the field by the cottage. 

 

Your mouth opens and you let out a scornful sound. “Well done for thinking about every angle. What do you want? A _prize?”_

 

A shield of ice skims across Mycroft’s eyes and a frustrated breath leaves his mouth, before his lips tighten. His hand delves into the inside pocket of his jacket. A moment later he pulls out a phone. You eye it warily. It’s an old model, but still pretty decent. “I want you to have this,” he presses it into your hand. Your fingers curl around it and you look down at it momentarily, before you meet his eyes with suspicious ones of your own. “Everything is set up on it. You shouldn't tell anyone you have it, or make it too obvious when you use it. Everyone’s numbers are on it. Mine”-

 

“I don’t want your number,” you say, trying to shove it back into his hand, but he refuses to accept it. 

 

“I don’t expect you to call me. I, of course, would be glad to hear from you,” he acknowledges, and your eyes narrow. “But I hardly expect to be your first point of contact, which is why you’ll find numbers for my brother, Dr. Watson, Lestrade, Donovan, even Mrs. Hudson on there. If you are in trouble”-

 

“If I go to the church you mean,” you interrupt him knowingly.

 

“If you are in trouble or you just want to say something to one of us”-

 

“I think I’ve said everything I want to, to you”-

 

“I tend to agree.”

 

Your eyes narrow even further. “But whilst we are on the subject perhaps you could answer me one thing.”

 

“I will do my best,” Mycroft nods. 

 

“What happened to the driver we had on the first day I was here?”

 

Mycroft looks at you curiously. “The pilot is the same today as”-

 

“I know the _pilot’s_ the same,” you interrupt cuttingly, “If I’d meant the pilot then I would have said _‘pilot’”-_ Mycroft swallows-“I meant the _car_ driver. I just find it curious that after he looked at me oddly the other day I haven’t seen him again. Of course I thought at first that there might be a perfectly innocent explanation. The driver might have had the day off or you might have different ones. But the fact that the driver _was_ the same for the following days suggests that you’d intended for us both to have the same driver throughout. Of course, what with everything I’ve now heard, I'm wondering even more if there’s a darker reason I haven’t seen him again. Did you sack him?” Mycroft’s eyes go to his knees. “Did you sack him just because he didn't do what you wanted him to? Just because he did something you didn't like? Is that the person you really are? The type of person who abuses their power?” Mycroft’s eyes flicker with something as he wonders to say what he really wants to. The helicopter touches down with a bump and he suddenly finds that it’s too late. “Thought so,” you say with some satisfaction in your tone, before you grab your rucksack and begin to push past him.

 

“Perhaps you’d like to remember that I was not the only one to hurt you at that time,” Mycroft murmurs quietly. Half-bent you let out a little breath. Your legs are trapped between the front seat and his knees, and your hand had been outstretched towards the outside world, but it falters on its quest now so that you can listen. “Others were also responsible for the loneliness you felt,” Mycroft goes on, before he draws his breath. “It says something I think that you do not seem to be as angry with them as you are with me. Says something that you found it in yourself to forgive Sally so easily yesterday, but that you absolutely refuse to act sensibly with me. Why do you think that is F/N? Why are my wrongs against you vaster than anyone else’s?” 

 

You swallow, but you don’t say anything. Instead you finish wriggling past him and clamber out of the helicopter without another word. 

 

Mycroft does not follow you. Instead with a sinking of his heart he just instructs Alfonso to take off again as soon as you have left. Alfonso looks at him hesitatingly, before he makes to do as instructed. As the helicopter rises into the air Mycroft watches your lonely figure making its way across the desolate field back to the cottage. He catches you stuffing your phone into your rucksack and hopes that you will think about his words, before he turns his head away again.


	6. I'm beginning to remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You realise just how much Mycroft means to you, but is it too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for all of your support. Best of luck to anyone heading back to school this week. I hope the new year will be a good one for you. Special thanks must go to FJ for making me smile. :) Not all of this chapter will make you smile FJ, but this one's for you. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. :)

To say that your mother is overjoyed to have you home is an understatement. As soon as you push the door open she comes scuttling up to you, dishcloth in hand, before she engulfs you in her arms with a huge cry of, “Oh F/N!” Your father hovers anxiously behind her. 

 

Mother leans back from you and holds you away from her by your shoulders. She eyes you worriedly. You find that you can barely look at her. An awkward smile that says that you’d rather her attention went to someone else plays about your lips. 

 

“F/N?” she asks, “Is everything”-

 

“I'm fine Mother,” you tell her, before you finally force yourself to look at her. “Just tired that’s all.”

 

She nods and lets go of you, but you can tell by the way that she bites at her lip and continues to stare at you that she’s not convinced. 

 

You move across to hug Father. 

 

“Did something happen, whist you were away?” he asks. 

 

You shake your head as you draw back from him, “No, I remembered a few more things, but honestly Ism telling you that I'm fine.”

 

“It’s good to have you back in any case dear,” your mother says from where she’s still observing you closely. 

 

You force another smile at them, before you take your rucksack upstairs. You don’t even bother unpacking. Instead you just sit on your bed and dwell on how you’d expected to feel better upon coming home. Instead you just feel as restless as ever and like even though you know more now this still isn't the place that you should be. You frown, before you finally unpack to try and take your mind off things. It doesn’t work, and your feelings of irritation with everything continue as you eat lunch with your parents. 

 

After it’s over and everything is washed up you return to your room for a little while. Still, you feel uncomfortable and like you’re just trapped in the small cottage, so, making up your mind, you go downstairs and tell your parents that you’re going to go for a walk. You can tell from their exchanged glance that they think you’re going to the church. Perhaps they even think that you’ve decided your feelings for Darren are ones of love, whilst you’ve been away. But, instead of telling them otherwise, you slip out without a further word. 

 

Despite the fact that Mycroft’s warning flashes through your mind the church is exactly where you head. Not to confess your undying love for Darren, but rather-because it is not a Sunday-to seek solace there. You still think that Mycroft’s words about how you shouldn't go there are mad, or at the very least a gross over-reaction. Perhaps it’s another headache situation where he’s got something in his head that seems to make sense to him, but that seems quite silly to you. How can Darren have anything to do with your incident after all? How can _anyone_ so far from London have an ounce of responsibility for it? You huff out a breath, clamber up the steps towards the church, move down the path and slip inside. It’s silent and empty. _Perfect._ You make your way down to one of the middle pews on the right and sit there. It’s not the most comfortable, what with the way that your back digs into the wood and the way that your legs are rather inhibited in the directions that they can move in, but despite those facts you genuinely feel a sense of calm that you have not felt since, before standing outside of St. Barts yesterday. You let out a soft breath and close your eyes. The cool air swirls around you. Your mind seems to set to work thinking about everything in more clear detail. In particular it seems to want to ponder over the issue of one, Mycroft Holmes. The first thing you’re conscious of feeling when you think of him is hurt and sadness, but then the last words he’d spoken to you on the helicopter come back to you and the feeling you get from them almost seems to contradict the others. You let out a little shuddery breath and allow your fingers to tightly curl around the edge of the seat. Deep down in your sub-conscious you know the answer to the question that Mycroft had asked you. But it’s not something that you want to think about or admit. It’s not something that you even understand. It just swirls around you like a foreign intruder. It makes as much sense to you as does the fact that you’d somehow slept with Mycroft before, even after he’d hurt you. 

 

“Ah, the wanderer returns,” comes a jovial, satisfied voice. 

 

Your eyes flash open. You suddenly realize, as Darren emerges from the door that’s on the left of the lectern, that your cheeks are damp. You let out a bit of a gurgle and swipe hurriedly at your eyes. 

 

“F/N?” Darren asks, still some way away, but approaching you. “Is everything all right?”

 

“I think I made a mistake in coming back here,” you blurt out, before you ram your hands over your mouth. 

 

Darren falters and you see something you can’t define flare up in his eyes, something almost _hard…_ a moment later though you think that you must have imagined it. For as Darren clumsily bridges the rest of the gap between you and sits down next to you with a thud, his face couldn't look any gentler, _or_ more concerned. 

 

“What time did you get back?” he asks softly, his eyes upon you. 

 

You shift your position. “Just in time for lunch.”

 

Darren’s face clears. “Well then, you haven’t exactly given yourself much of a chance to appreciate being back have you?”

 

You smile a little, knowing that he’s right, but it soon slips off your face again once you remember what Alice had said. Your heart beats unevenly, whilst you wonder whether you should say anything. You want to. You’re just not sure how. It is a rather difficult and awkward conversation to breach after all, but what with you being so confused you think that you should have it. Especially if it will help clear the air about one thing. You let out a tremulous breath. _“Darren?”_ Darren whose gaze had been going to the front again, looks at you, apparently with no idea of what you’re about to say. “Erm, this is”-your hands fidget a little-“Rather nerve wracking for me to say, and I-well-I, please forgive me if I’ve got the wrong end of things here. But why exactly are you helping me? My family seem to be under the impression that, well”-

 

“They are of the belief that because you are a young, beautiful woman and I am a man I must be helping you because I feel love towards you,” Darren comments. You nod. You’re not quite sure what to make of the fact that he just called you beautiful. “I do not want to disappoint them,” he says, placing a hand delicately over yours. You feel at once uncomfortable. “But I am afraid that I am merely acting as a man in my position should. I care for you of course. You are one of my parishioners. But I’m afraid that I do not harbour any feelings beyond that for you.” He lets go of you and fiddles at the cuffs of the black shirt he’s wearing. “I think it would be quite wrong of me if I did, things being what they are.” You nod, feeling relieved and thinking that he means because he is a vicar, but your heart clenches in the next moment when Darren says, “Besides, am I correct in saying that there is someone in London you have taken a shine to?”

 

Your mind instantly goes to Mycroft. Mycroft promising your parents that he would look after you. Mycroft reassuring you and distracting you on the helicopter. Not to mention the way that his body had been so close to yours. Your heart hitches. You think about Mycroft making you feel better after the blog had upset you, making you feel as if he understood and not only that but making you feel as if you shared similarities with one another. You think about Mycroft making you laugh as he fiddled with his chopsticks and pretended that he couldn't hold them. You feel a pang of pain and sway forwards momentarily, closing your eyes and letting out a bit of a breath. You think of Mycroft getting your sister to you as if he’d known just how very much you wanted to see her, as if he’d understood your very anguish. You suddenly remember how you’d said to Alice that it might be nice if you had someone helping you through all this and realize that Mycroft had in a way partly been filling that role without you even being aware at the time that he’d been doing such a thing. You recall Mycroft reading you poetry next and you feel warmth spread through you. It shines brighter than any one of the candles that have been lit for advent in the church. A smile appears upon your lips. You remember how both Mrs. Hudson and John had implied that Mycroft acts differently with you. That you _must_ mean something to him. But then you frown again and feel emotional because you remember the goldfish remark and all the loneliness and hurt he’d left you with after Sherlock had fallen. Your throat feels tight, and when Darren clears his own you suddenly realize that you’re crying again. You open your eyes and accept the handkerchief that Darren passes you. “It’s complicated,” you murmur, dabbing at your eyes. 

 

Darren seems to think about it for a moment. “Can I make a suggestion?” he asks. You look at him, lowering the handkerchief. “Know that I'm only saying this because I think that it will be for your own good.” You nod. “I think perhaps until you’ve got everything clearer in your head, you should stay away from London, _and_ Mycroft.” 

 

You nod slowly, thinking that he’s probably right. 

 

It’s not until later on when you’re lying awake that night, that you make the realization that you don’t even know how Darren knows Mycroft’s name. You go completely cold for a moment and wonder if Mycroft had been right after all, and if Darren _had,_ had something to do with your incident. But then you reassure yourself by thinking that your mother had probably informed him about Mycroft when he’d popped around before, whilst you’d been away. He’d then probably made the correct assumption that it’s Mycroft your mind is so confused over based on the fact that he’d been the one to pick you up. Yes, you think as a headache begins to burn in your mind, that’s probably it. 

 

The next couple of weeks are hard. Your mind keeps going back and forth on Mycroft’s positives and negatives and everything that you can remember him saying to you. It only goes so far however, before something inside you just won’t let it go any further. You also find yourself dwelling on everyone else in London too. Sally, and by default Mycroft had been right of course. It hadn’t been just the two of them who had hurt you. Sherlock should take some of the blame for jumping and making you believe that he was dead for so long, whilst John too with the way he’d moved out and left you is partly responsible for the way you’d felt. Even though such thoughts make you feel hurt again it’s never too long before you end up recalling the sensation you’d had a while before Mycroft had taken you back to London of laughing with friends and being surrounded by warmth. Not to mention the flashback you’d had when Greg and Sally had come around of you speaking with your mother. You’d sounded so convinced that your friends in London had been good to you. But then that was before they’d all hurt you, you think. Yet for some reason, even when you’d been hurting, you’d chosen to _remain_ in London, _and,_ like Mycroft had said you’d even found it in yourself to forgive all of them. Had the good times really been that good that you couldn't give any of them up? You know, without even thinking about it much that they must have been. But that doesn’t make you feel any less troubled. After all, you’re fully aware that you should probably be moving on and trying to re-build your life, preferably here in Wales. That would make your family the happiest you know, and you’d partly thought that it would make _you_ the happiest at one point. But how can you when so much of your thoughts are still about London, your past, and _him?_ How are you supposed to move on from it all when you still feel so damn restless about everything? 

 

Your mind is so wrapped up in it all that you barely acknowledge the fact that it’s Christmas. In the end you just have a quiet one with your parents and Alice. Thankfully Darren is not invited to the festivities. Although you’ve tried to make it clear that he’s not interested in you in that way, and nor are you interested in him, your mother still insists on casting hopeful glances at the pair of you whenever Darren comes around to continue his Bible sessions. Whilst Alice had chosen to loudly remark that it’s a shame neither of you seem to realize what a nice couple you’d make. Thankfully Darren had chosen to ignore her comment as much as you had, and whilst he hasn’t discussed London or Mycroft with you again in an in-depth fashion he has asked after each session with him whether you’ve made contact with anyone from London or whether they have made contact with you, as well as asking whether you’d like to share anything. Each time you’d given him a polite, ‘No.’

 

It’s not as if you haven’t thought about ringing anyone from London. You still have the phone that Mycroft had given you after all, and you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve been lying on your bed flicking through the list of contacts. Despite your words on the helicopter you’ve thought of ringing Mycroft a couple of times too. Perhaps just so that you could listen to his soft voice and see how he’d respond to you, so that you could figure out more about him. On occasion you’ve thought about ringing Sherlock and John and getting their take on what had happened after the fall. Maybe even Mrs. Hudson in the hope that she, as more of an outsider, might be able to tell you more about Mycroft and what on earth you should do about him. But you haven’t rung any of them. Not even Sally. There’s no excuse for you not doing so, not really. You've got enough that you could say to all of them you’re sure. It’s just easier not to, and that attitude persists all the way into January. 

 

You’re walking towards the shop one damp, cloudy day where the drizzle taps against your shoulders as a constant reminder of the outer world. You’re on your way to get yourself a more substantial notebook. Your mind is very much still on London and Mycroft, but you’re feeling bored and you know that it might be a wise idea to try and get properly back into writing again. Not just keep scribbling about London and how confused you are, but actually try and turn all that into a substantial script of some kind, one that might be worthy of something one day. You can’t just keep not doing anything after all, and you are supposed to be making the most of this year off to see if you can do anything with your writing. It’s a little depressing to think how much of it has gone already. At this rate you’ll have to look for proper work soon. You let out a little sigh and your mind turns to thinking about Mycroft and everyone else and wondering what they might be doing. Have they been thinking about you at all? Will you be seeing any of them again soon? Again you get that odd urge to ring one of them. But you can’t. Darren had been right; it’s probably just best to take some time away from everyone to think. Even though at the moment you keep going around in the same old circles you’re bound to break out of it eventually. Then you’ll have a better idea of how to move forwards. You swallow again and try to convince yourself of such a fact, not for the first time. 

 

As you get closer to the shop you come out of your thought and start to focus more on your surroundings. The bottoms of your trousers are already soaked from how absent-minded your brain has been so far. Your mother won’t be pleased. You huff out a breath. There aren't many people out today, but the few that are, are carrying umbrellas of all colours and wearing rather harried expressions, whilst they carry whatever bags or shopping that they have. No one seems to take any notice of you, which you don’t mind. You swerve towards the right and the shop on the whole quite contentedly. Just as you’re about to step into it however a familiar sandy brown haired man tumbles out of it. 

 

 _“John!”_ you exclaim, feeling stunned. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ John breathes, looking slightly wide-eyed, before his face becomes more serious. 

 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. “Don’t tell me that you’re out here working on a case for someone?”

 

“Not exactly,” John says, looking suddenly sheepish. He shifts his position. “Actually, perhaps I could have a word with you?”

 

You eye him for a moment, before you nod. You feel a mixture of anxiety and apprehension at seeing him again, but part of you also feels oddly excited. You turn-the notebook forgotten-and begin to make your way back to the cottage. 

 

You've barely taken two steps however when you feel a hand upon your wrist. You look back around to find that John’s staring at you imploringly. 

 

“Actually,” he says, “Maybe we could go somewhere else? To a pub? I’d like to talk to you privately.”

 

You look at him feeling intrigued. You nod. 

 

John looks relieved and allows you to lead him to a little pub that’s at the end of the street. You've been there once or twice with Alice in the past, but its been a while. You enter it rather cautiously. 

 

To your relief it’s quiet, with only a few pub goers amongst the orange and brown furnishings. It feels oddly cosy, and walking inside makes you realize just how cold it had been outside. 

 

John orders a beer, whilst you get yourself a J2O.

 

The doctor then leads the way over to a quiet table in the corner. You sit opposite each other and you look at him curiously. John however seems quite content to just sip at his beer for a moment. 

 

You shift your position. “So,” you murmur, “It’s not that I'm not glad to see you or anything, but what exactly are you doing here? Did something happen on my case? Did Greg send you?”

 

John hesitates, before he ducks his head towards his beer. He just tastes it for a moment, licking at his lips and pondering. Finally he looks back up at you and says, “Greg didn't send me.”

 

Your lips part. “Then who”- you break off as light travels in segments across John’s face. You get it at the same moment the light leaves. _“Mycroft,”_ you blurt out, “Mycroft sent you didn't he?” you sound breathless, and quite frankly you’re not sure whether you should feel annoyed or touched. 

 

Again John hesitates, before he nods. “I got here the same day you came back in the helicopter.” 

 

“But that was _weeks_ ago!” you exclaim, wondering how on earth you could have failed to spot John up until now. Wondering how you’d never even heard anyone talking about this new face in the area. 

 

John nods. “He wanted both Sherlock and I to come at first. But Sherlock refused. He said that he needed to stay in London, so I came instead”-

 

“But what about Mary? The baby?” you interrupt, feeling annoyed with Mycroft now. 

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” John’s face clears, “I brought Mary with me-well,” he corrects, “She brought me here is what she would say.” You feel a little better, but you still look concerned. “Don’t fret,” John reassures you, “She might be pregnant but she can handle herself.”

 

You smile, but then you’re reminded of how that almost sounds like a description that have could have once been said about you. You’d once been the type of person who could handle yourself. You know that even more from having read more of John’s blog late at night via the phone that Mycroft had given you. You’d read about how you’d capably held a firearm during the case of the hound, how Sherlock had fallen and how, two years later, although you’d been upset you’d made up with everyone bar Mycroft like it had just been a natural thing to do. Like it had been the _right_ thing to do. Reading such things had only left you feeling more inadequate and confused though, and you’d never read it for long, before you’d turned the phone off again and gotten lost in your thought. You let out a sigh and feel trembly on the inside. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ John checks. 

 

You find that you’re staring at the swirling mixture of his beer. Your head jerks upwards. “I wish you’d visited, or even just called,” you say in a desperate tone. John looks confused. You clear your throat. “After Sherlock,” you clarify. 

 

John shifts his position and looks down. You can tell that he understands what you’re on about. “It was difficult,” John mutters, his hand tapping absent-mindedly against the glass. 

 

You bite at your lip. “It was difficult for me too,” you tell him softly. You meet each other’s eyes. 

 

“I'm sorry,” John says. You nod. He clears his throat and draws himself up. “Er, can we talk about something else?” he asks with a bit of a nervous laugh. “I'm fine now, but it’s still”- he breaks off with a shrug.

 

“Of course,” you reassure him, before you go on to ask, “So, me running into you outside of the shop today, was that an accident? Or”- you break off deliberately. 

 

“Well,” John says, “It sort of was. I mean, technically, as far as anyone else knows, even Mycroft, I'm still watching you without you knowing. Unless he’s got someone else watching me, watching you, which, actually, knowing Mycroft, wouldn't surprise me,” the thought seems to suddenly cross John’s mind. He frowns and you also feel a little troubled. “Anyway, the point is,” John says, bringing you both out of your minds, “I was actually hoping that I might get a chance to talk to you more privately. I was literally only telling Mary last night that I’d like the opportunity to.”

 

“About what?” you ask, before you sip at your drink.

 

“Mycroft,” John says bluntly. 

 

You straighten up and lean back from the table. Your heart suddenly thumps in panic. You’re not ready yet. You haven’t properly decided what you think about Mycroft. “I don’t”-

 

“F/N,” John interrupts, raising a hand placatingly, “Just listen to me for a moment would you?” You nod falteringly. John lets out a little breath. “Right,” he shifts his position, “It’s just when I’ve been ringing Sherlock to update him on the situation here I’ve noticed something. He’s been sounding more and more irritable each time”-

 

“I really don’t see what that has to do with”- you begin, before you break off when John raises a hand to stop you. 

 

He eyes you knowingly. “Now, I of course don’t know whether that’s because of Mycroft. It might just be Sherlock being Sherlock, and even if it wasn't Holmes’s don’t talk about stuff like that. He would never tell me. Similarly he would never tell me that he stayed behind in London to keep an eye on his brother, even though I know that he did. Mary and I have both done a little questioning ourselves, and, according to what we've heard from both Greg and Molly, Mycroft sounds like he’s in a bad way.” John pauses and eyes you carefully. You feel something inside of yourself stiffen, whilst your mind freezes. “To me it sounds as if he’s overworking himself. He’s really pale, apparently he’s lost weight and he seems quite irritable and exhausted.”

 

You feel like you’re barely breathing, and of course you feel worried. Your mind goes back to the morning when Mycroft had awoken you and how tired he’d looked. Still you find yourself saying, “But how can you know that, that has anything to do with me? It could just be a work thing, or”-

 

“Listen F/N,” John huffs out, “I'm going to ask you something now and I want you to be completely honest with me all right? As far as I can tell this has already gone too far.” You swallow and nod. “Good,” John’s fingers shift against the table, “Now, I want you to tell me whether you’ve decided if you care for Mycroft or not? I'm being delicate when I say _‘care.’”_

 

You swallow again. “It’s like I said before,” you get out anxiously, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but”- you break off. John looks at you maddeningly. “I don’t know!” you blurt out, causing a rather chubby, balding man who’s leaning against the bar to look across at you. You swallow and lower your voice as you say, “All I know is that he behaved really badly towards me before and I”-

 

“As you pointed out earlier he wasn't the only one,” John reminds you. 

 

“I know,” you look at him desperately, before you implore, “But that’s just another reason as far as I'm concerned. Why should I go back there just because you all want me to and have a good time for a bit only to get hurt again?”

 

“Look,” John swallows, “I can’t say that Mycroft or anyone else will never hurt you. He probably will, as might I, Sherlock _definitely_ will”-you let out a choked laugh and John looks a little relieved-“But staying here isn't going to protect you from getting hurt either”-

 

“In the past few weeks”- you begin defensively. 

 

“In the past few weeks you’ve been hurting yourself,” John points out. You look at him. “You've been beating yourself up about it”-you sigh- _“Agonizing_ over which choice will lead to the most happiness and giving yourself a hard time for not already knowing.”

 

 _“See?”_ you exclaim, “This is one of the reasons why I shouldn't go back. Everyone else knows me more than I know them or even myself for that matter.”

 

“You _do_ know everyone, and of course you know yourself,” John insists, “You just need to trust yourself and your instincts more.” He huffs out a breath. “What are your instincts telling you about Mycroft?”

 

“I don’t”- you close your eyes and scrunch your face up. 

 

“Then let me tell you a few things that might help you decide. Going right back to the masquerade ball”-

 

“I can’t”-

 

“I know. That’s why I'm telling you,” John says firmly. He lets out another breath. “I’ve never known Mycroft to go to a dance before or to even willingly socialize with people. Usually he’s above all that, but suddenly he’s dancing with you and Sherlock’s announcing that Mycroft’s taking you back to his.” John shakes his head. “That-That wasn't an usual occurrence F/N. I’ve never even heard of Mycroft having a relationship with someone before”-your mind goes back to what Mycroft had told you about only having his family and job to think of-“Let alone openly taking someone back to his. Point two. He slept with you”-

 

“It might have just been a one-night stand”-

 

 _“F/N,”_ John looks at you, “Do you _really_ think that Mycroft’s the type of person to have one-night stands? He’s stern, uptight, he doesn’t look like he knows what the meaning of the word ‘fun’ is, and he probably has a panic attack if he gets even a blemish on his clothes. He’s not just going to share such intimacies with anyone.” You have to smile at that, but you soon become serious again. “In your heart of hearts?” John pushes you. 

 

“I don’t _want_ to believe that it was just a one-night stand,” you begin falteringly. John looks at you intently. “No,” you shake your head, finally deciding.

 

John looks somewhat satisfied. “So,” he reels off, “We know that he has an interest in you”-your heart beats unevenly-“We know that perhaps he even feels more than that for you. Perhaps he loves you.” You swallow. “Now, I can be pretty in my head about things, but I'm no way on either Sherlock or Mycroft’s level. So, although I can’t know for _sure_ how your incident and memory loss resulted in Mycroft feeling, I do know that if he feels as strongly for you as I suspect he does”-you open your mouth-“Mycroft wouldn't have gone to the masquerade ball lightly F/N. He’d have thought about it, that I _do_ know. Then the fact that he’d finally have made things up with you, the fact that he’d slept with you, must have made what then transpired devastating.” Your stomach does something funny. You’d never thought about it that way before. Never tried to see it from Mycroft’s perspective if things had actually been honourable between you. “I haven’t seen much of him since all this started, but, according to Greg he was almost relieved in one sense when you came to Wales. He didn't even want you to be brought back to London. Greg said that he was very much against the idea”-

 

“Probably so that I wouldn't remember about the fall”-

 

 _“F/N,”_ John says, whilst he gives you another knowing look, “I don’t know about everything that’s been going on, but I think that Mycroft’s just been trying to protect you all this time”-your mind goes back to what Sally had said and you swallow-“He certainly has by the way he got me out here looking out for you. Whilst I think he’s almost been trying to keep himself away from you. But I can’t just sit here and watch any more. If what I'm hearing is true then Mycroft’s been making himself ill over all this”-your heart dips-“And I know that you haven’t been doing much better either.” You swallow. “Sherlock might never admit it but I know that he’d be devastated if anything happened to his brother, and what sort of doctor would I be if I just let things continue?” 

 

You swallow. You know what John’s implying and what you have to do. You look back at him. “If I go back to London then since you’re following me you’ll have to come with me. Mary too.”

 

“Correct,” John smiles, “We won’t tell Mycroft, he’d probably only protest and I want it to be a surprise, but I’ll send a message through to Sherlock. Tell him that we’ll be back shortly.” You nod. “Come,” John smiles reassuringly at you, “Let’s go and say something to your parents.” 

 

To say that you know how your parents are going to react no matter what you tell them is an understatement. 

 

True to form as soon as you announce that you intend to go back to London your mother shakes her head and moves forwards to where John and you are standing just inside the door, before she grasps at your shoulder. “F/N, please”-

 

“Mother I know, I _know_ that it must seem absurd that I have to go back to London so soon again. But just trust me when I say that I _need_ to do this”-

 

“Why? To see that man again?” your mother asks knowingly. 

 

You open your mouth again and then close it. “I have-I have to speak with him,” you confess. John looks in between the pair of you worriedly, whilst your father lurks in the background. 

 

“F/N, that man’s no good for you,” your mother insists, shaking you a bit. 

 

You tug your shoulder away from her. “I have to”-

 

“F/N I’d much rather that you stayed here. I don’t know what silly hold that man has got over you, but”-

 

You shake your head and move towards the stairs, so that you can pack a few things. 

 

“F/N you are not to go. That is an order. If you listen to just one thing I say”-your mind flashes back to the helicopter when Mycroft had said something similar-“Then just listen to me now.” 

 

You shake your head to get out of your buzzing thought. “I'm sorry,” you mutter over your shoulder to her, before you march determinedly towards the stairs. 

 

“Oh why can’t you just all leave us alone and let my daughter recover in peace?” your mother says to John despairingly as soon as you’re out of earshot. 

 

John gives her a little awkward smile, before, upon seeing that she wants more from him he tries to explain, “Mrs. L/N, I understand that from your perspective it must look like everyone your daughter knows in London is being incredibly disruptive, _and_ insensitive to her recovery, but you can be quite certain that the opposite is true. We all greatly respect F/N and we all want her to recover. She will be safe in London. I can’t guarantee that things won’t be a little difficult for her, but she will be safe. Everyone will make sure of that.”

 

“Right,” you emerge from where you’d been listening to part of John’s speech from behind the door that covers the stairs with a rucksack on your back, “If we’re ready then”- you wave a hand. 

 

Your mother looks in between John and you. “How is it that you’ll be getting to London?” she asks, before she declares, “I can’t hear a helicopter.” She looks over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen window as if she’s worried that she might be mistaken. 

 

“Don’t worry,” John tells her, patting at her arm, “My wife and I can take F/N there in our car.”

 

“Oh, your wife’s here too,” your mother exclaims, looking at John. You note that she sounds both a little surprised and relieved.

 

“Yes,” John confirms. 

 

“And since she’s pregnant I'm sure that John will be driving really slowly and that we’ll definitely get there safely,” you add, knowing that although Mary can surely handle herself just like John had said earlier you can play on this aspect and use it to appeal to your mother. 

 

Your mother nods. “Very well,” she goes on, standing up even straighter. “You can go. But I'm not happy about this F/N, and I think, no, I must tell you that if you don’t return home soon then we’ll be coming to fetch you back ourselves.”

 

You draw yourself up haughtily. “There won’t be any need for _that_ mother.”

 

“We’ll see,” your mother replies in just a firm tone. 

 

You eye each other suspiciously for a moment, before you nod, hug both of your parents quickly and then depart. 

 

You’re silent for a little while as you trek through the small town with John. Truth be told you still feel a little moody about what your mother had said. Part of you wants to prove to her that you don’t need her mollycoddling and that you can look after yourself. 

 

“Mary’s meeting us by the bridge. The car’s just a short walk beyond that,” John says. 

 

You nod, but remain silent. 

 

John looks at you calculatingly, but decides not to say anything further. 

 

The rest of the walk is made in silence, before you finally come across Mary. You notice that she’s in dark blue and white attire and leaning casually against the bridge. Her baby bump is prominent, but she’s not huge by any means. You also notice that John stops. You look at him confusedly and slow to a halt yourself, but he picks up speed and goes across to her. 

 

“It’s you isn't it?” you hear John ask as you move to join them. Despite the fact that you’re walking you still notice the way that Mary stiffens, before she pulls a bit of a face. “I was saying to F/N just now that it wouldn't surprise me if Mycroft had someone watching me, watching her, and it’s you isn't it?”

 

Mary lets out a bit of a breath as you stop to join them, and you think that she looks relieved for a moment, but if she does then she recovers quickly, drawing herself up and saying, “Well, I might be pregnant, but I'm not one to just sit back and do nothing.” She looks in between her husband and you with a smile. “Mycroft thought that a second point of contact was a sensible idea, and he’s already seen the way that I'm capable of running rings around both Sherlock and you, so he trusted me.”

 

John goggles a little. “He’ll be asking you to work for him properly next,” he says, not looking entirely happy as he folds his arms. 

 

“He already has,” Mary smiles, which makes John’s mouth drop open. She lets out a bit of a laugh. “Apparently my reports have been much more detailed than yours.” John looks like he doesn’t know what to say to that. Mary looks to you. “F/N,” she breathes, putting her arms around you, “It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

 

“Fine,” you mumble, giving her a little shrug and feeling irritated that you can’t stop yourself from feeling annoyed because of the fact that Mycroft’s chosen her to work for him. You wish that he’d see what he’s evidently seen in her in you. 

 

Mary raises her eyebrows, before she comments, “You've definitely been hanging around with men too long.” You look at her. “That’s like a response that I would have gotten from either Sherlock or my husband,” she explains, “Mycroft too.” She winks at you and sticks her tongue out a little teasingly. You find yourself smiling at her apprehensively and your body slumps a little as it feels a little lighter. There’s no point having stupid feelings of jealousy, if that is what they are, just because Mary works for Mycroft. Things are complicated enough as it is. “That’s better,” Mary nods approvingly, before she links your arm with hers. John follows you both, looking a little baffled, but tentatively pleased. 

 

Once you get in the car you sit in the back and allow Mary to be in the front next to her husband who’s driving. The trip’s a long one, but you find yourself liking Mary more and more as it goes along. She natters away, pretends to be insulted when either John or you seem to be lost in thought and one time she even puts the radio on and starts singing. She’s also made sure that the car’s stocked with sweets, which you’re appreciative of because you’re feeling a little bit restless and fidgety. 

 

You stop a few times en route, which you’re glad of. Not only for the brief break that it provides you all with and the opportunity to stretch your legs, but also because of the fact that it delays you from getting to London just that little bit longer. The closer you get the more apprehensive you find yourself feeling, and when you eventually come to be slipping back into the city underneath the cover of darkness you couldn't feel any more nervous. What if you’ve come all this way and Mycroft just turns out to be the person you don’t want him to be? You let out a small breath and bow your head. You feel like you’re going to be sick. Perhaps your mother was right. Perhaps you _should_ have just stayed at home. 

 

“F/N,” John murmurs softly from the front. He glances at you tentatively through the windscreen mirror. “Would you like to go to 221B first?”

 

You swallow. Your hands tangle together anxiously on your lap. Part of you wants to take up John’s suggestion, but the other part of you knows that you’ll feel better from just going straight to Mycroft’s and getting all this over with. 

 

Mary looks around at you with some difficulty. She’s got one hand on her stomach. You glance up at her, before your gaze darts down again. She studies you for one long moment, before she withdraws her head and faces the front. “Take us to Kensington please,” she tells John. 

 

Her husband looks at her. “Sometimes it’s like I married Sherlock,” he mutters, fixing his gaze on the road again. 

 

You snort in spite of yourself. 

 

“Yes, but as we've agreed I'm much more beautiful,” Mary remarks. 

 

John smiles at that and you grin. 

 

*

 

Mycroft gets home that night feeling weary as he spends half of his life feeling these days. He unlocks the door automatically, flicks the hallway light on and drags his feet inside, away from the darkness, which is beginning to descend more completely. A sigh manages to escape him as he allows his umbrella to fall back into the holder with a thud. He scrapes a hand across his eyes and takes another step forwards. He stops. He cannot explain it but he suddenly feels an uneasy prickling sensation in his stomach. Something isn't right. Something has changed within the house and he doesn’t know what, but it as if there’s something lingering there that doesn’t belong. He bites at his lip and puts his briefcase off to the side. He turns around and locks the door, before he proceeds to investigate the entirety of the downstairs. 

 

When everything is normal and as it should be he wonders if he was mistaken. Wonders if it was simply his mind playing tricks on him. He returns to the stairs breathing a little freer. He eyes his briefcase. For a moment he wonders whether he should take it upstairs with him. In the end he decides not to. He needs to go over some papers later on so it’s better off staying where it is. He turns and begins to pad stealthily upstairs. One of the steps creak and Mycroft hesitates, before he tells himself off for being so irrational. There’s nothing here to cause him alarm. He’s just being this way because he’s simply found that he’s felt more exhausted about everything of late. He’s been struggling to get a good night’s sleep and has been up until the early hours worrying about everything. As a consequence he’s also been working harder and pushing himself more to try and get his mind off you. To try and keep his mind at the point where it’s convinced that all the pain he’s feeling inside will be worth it as long as you’re kept safe and to stop it from hoping for anything more. A sudden smell fills Mycroft’s nostrils and makes him stop. He can smell dampness and something putrid beneath it too like sewage. His nose wrinkles at the very same moment that his heart increases its pace. All of a sudden he’s moving more swiftly upstairs, his hand jumping on the banister.

 

*

 

“You’ll be fine F/N,” Mary says, looking at you through the windscreen mirror. 

 

You look up from where your gaze had been fixed on your tangled hands in your lap and nod. Your heart’s jumping about erratically in your chest and your hands are already beginning to feel sweaty. You couldn't feel any more nervous if you tried. You wish that your mind could just keep calm and focus on what you need to say to Mycroft, but it doesn’t seem able to. 

 

* 

 

Mycroft stops for a moment upon the landing. The smell seems to be coming from his room. He walks across to it and boldly pushes the door open, before he switches the light on. At first, straining his eyes and trying not to blink, he sees nothing out of the ordinary. He steps inside and turns towards the bed. What he sees makes him stop dead. You’re lying diagonally across it, face down, and what is more alarming is that you’re dead. 

 

*

 

The car pulls up alongside the pavement. 

 

You glance at what you can make out of the driveway and the trees outside Mycroft’s house in the dark. You can see a light that must be coming from the house flickering through the trees. Something tightens inside you and you look down again, breathing deeply and still trying to think of what you need to.

 

“Well, he’s in at least,” John says, looking at the same light as you, “Do you want us to wait here?” 

 

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay.”

 

“We can pick you up later if you want. You can come back to ours or 221C or whatever,” John says kindly. 

 

You nod, feeling grateful. Your fingers fidget on your lap. You take another deep breath. “Thank you,” you tell them both, before you grab your rucksack, open the car door and swing out. This is it. 

 

You slip the rucksack onto your back, wriggle your clammy fingers, close the car door behind you and march as confidently as you can towards Mycroft’s house. You can’t know how both Mary and John stare after you anxiously. 

 

“It’s fine F/N,” you tell yourself, “You’re just going to talk with him, see what he has to say, nothing else has to happen. You don’t have to decide right now.” You nod, trying to convince yourself that all will be well, but your stomach flutters in anxiety all the same. You step in between the shrubs and to the door. You push at the doorbell. 

 

*

 

Mycroft doesn’t hear the bell because all he can focus on is the sight of you on his bed. Your body is completely soaked. Your hair bedraggled. He cannot see your face, cannot see your eyes, but he is convinced that it is you. You’re exactly the same height and weight that he remembers you being. _But,_ more than that you’re wearing clothes, which he knows that you own. Clothes that could have not just been picked up at any old shop and put on a body to resemble you because right there, close to the bottom of your jeans, is an old white paint stain that he remembers and he swears that it’s not a replica. 

 

His mind goes back to how he’d seen you at 221C one day, before Sherlock’s fall. You’d been sat by the table reading and left the door of your flat ajar. He’d pushed it open a little wider, using his usual umbrella to do so, and leaned against the frame of it for a moment, just watching you. He’d crossed his ankles. Your face had been caught between light and dark. You’d been lost in thought. You’d smiled at him when you’d finally noticed him and he’d found himself admiring how pretty you looked. You’d been wearing a shirt whose colour could be best described as dark-green, jeans and soft black shoes, just as you are presently. You’d stood up, greeted him and offered him a cup of tea. He’d initially declined. As usual he’d had rather a lot that he should have been doing. But, when your expression had fallen a fraction he’d changed his mind and supposed that he _could_ find time for one cup of tea after all. Your face had brightened at that and he’d noticed the white paint stain at the bottom of your jeans as you’d turned around. For his eyes, as they’d always done whenever you had your back turned, had trailed down you, appreciating the slight crinkle of your shirt, the feminine curve of your hips, your lovely perfect behind and shapely legs. 

 

In the present Mycroft lets out a gasp and staggers forward. He only goes so far, before he stops himself. He does not want to touch you and feel how cold and damp you must be. But more than that he does not want to turn you around. Does not want to find out whether your eyes are open and bulging, the pupils perfectly still and the light completely gone. Does not want to see how pale your face must be. Does not want to find out if your mouth is open in a gagging gesture and see whether water will trickle from it if he moves you. But at the same time when it comes down to it he doesn’t even need to see any of that because he can imagine it. Can imagine how you would have struggled for air in the Thames, before you’d died. Can imagine your frantic, pleading cries. Can imagine how the front of your shirt might have been slashed and cut open with a knife before that. Can imagine the red marks that must embrace your neck, collarbone and chest. Surely they would have tortured you. They would have tortured you just so that they could torture him. You would have struggled. You wouldn't have gone down without a fight. He thinks that he hears you calling his name in the distance and he nearly retches. He wonders if they’d made it clear to you that you had to die because of him, because that would cause _him_ pain. You must have died _hating_ him. He remembers how you’d told him how you wish that he’d just disappear, how you wish you’d never met him. He hadn’t believed you then, but he does now. He feels a great stabbing pain in his chest. This is his fault. His _entire_ fault. He should never have gone to that wretched masquerade ball. If he hadn’t then none of this would have happened. You’d be alive and safe. You might not be with him, but you’d still be there, in the vicinity and he’d be able to call on you. He’d been foolish enough to believe that you’d be safer in Wales too, even with Darren near by, even knowing that Moriarty’s men were watching you just as much as his were, along with John. For now you’re dead. Another pain hits him. He’s failed you, and the last damning proof of that is held in the little wooden ‘M’ that rests by your corpse. His vision swims at the sight of it and his knees fall suddenly onto the carpet. A ragged cry leaves his lips as he feebly tries to say your name. He longs suddenly to forget about all this. Longs for oblivion. But he is sure that even in death he will never forget what he has done to you. A moment later his head hits the carpet and he is quite still, one hand on his chest and the other outstretched towards the bed as if he is reaching for you and trying, even now, to pull you out of death. 

 

*

 

Outside you’re getting both a little impatient and anxious. John and Mary have long since driven away, you’ve rung the bell, even called Mycroft’s name, and _still_ you’re stuck out here. You’d wondered at first if he might not be in. But you’d felt sure by the light in the hallway that he was. You press at the doorbell insistently again. _“Mycroft?”_ you call. Silence. Perhaps he’s just ignoring you. Perhaps he doesn’t want to talk to you, wants nothing more to do with you. Perhaps _this_ is the type of man he really is. But still your heart doesn’t want to believe it. You step back and try calling his name, your head tilted towards the upstairs just in case he’s in the bath or something. Still nothing. You step forwards and hammer at the door. “Mycroft? Are you in there? Please open up if you are. It’s F/N. I want to talk to you.” You step back again, chewing on your lip and looking around in the darkness. There doesn’t seem to be anyone or anything about. No one is there to help you. You have the sudden good idea of trying to ring his mobile. Even if he’s in the bath you feel pretty sure that he’d always have his mobile close by. You get your phone out of your pocket, find his number and press to call. It rings and rings and your mind goes through many versions of what you might say to him if he picks up, but he never does. You stop trying to ring and push the phone back into your pocket with a sigh. Part of you guesses that you’ll just have to try again and come back here tomorrow, but even though you acknowledge that part of you, you don’t move. Something just doesn’t feel right about all this. You stare obstinately at the door for another moment as if it might magically open, or even as if words might appear, telling you what you need to do. You push against it tentatively, but it doesn’t budge. You throw all your weight against it, and though such an action causes the door to rattle and makes you let out a breath it still doesn’t give. You step back, before you look around. You can just make out a big, shadowy stone underneath the largest tree whose branches creep towards the house. You shift your position, before you hesitate. You can’t just break in. What if Mycroft really _is_ out and he just left the hallway light on to make it look as if someone was in? He’d be furious if you broke in and that was the case. You’re pretty sure that, _that_ wouldn't endear you to him. You swallow. Your hand brushes against your phone in your pocket again. In the end you decide to call someone. _Sherlock._ He might be able to help. 

 

“Hello?” Sherlock picks up cautiously, before he snipes, “Mycroft if that’s you then”-

 

“It’s me,” you blurt out. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ Sherlock says, sounding surprised, “I thought it might be my brother because I didn't recognize the number.”

 

“Listen,” you tell him, shifting your position, “John and Mary dropped me off outside Mycroft’s house, but I can’t seem to get hold of him. I think he might be in because the hallway light is on, but he won’t open the door. I’ve tried ringing him”-

 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Sherlock interrupts, “Stay exactly where you are and don’t make a further sound. If you hear anything that’s odd then go around the back of the house and hide until you can get out of there. I’ll get in touch with Lestrade. But you must be quiet unless it’s either one of us trying to get your attention. If you end up leaving, before we can get to you then get yourself to 221B and we’ll meet you there. Got that?”

 

“Okay,” you nod warily, “But what”-

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answers, before you can even finish asking the question. With that he’s gone. 

 

You swallow, before you turn around, step back and shiver. The press of your back against the door causes it to shudder and you swallow again. There comes the sudden sound of an owl. You don’t know what type. The occasional glow that stems from car headlights comes into view, before they disappear again. A low breeze rushes suddenly against the shrubs, making you jump. It gets stronger and a gale picks up amongst the trees. It feels like an age where you’re just standing there and waiting. Your breathing is uneven and you almost go dizzy because of it. Finally there comes a sudden roar of sound and your back slams even more persistently against the door. You can just make out a helicopter emerging above the trees, before its bright spotlight shines suddenly in your eyes, making you squint. You raise your arms to your eyes, shielding yourself as you turn your head to the side. Your throat goes dry. Your hair blows about your face and you suddenly feel more scared for yourself than anything else. You hear a voice. For a moment you think stupidly that it’s Mycroft’s, before you realize that it must be someone calling you from the helicopter. Suddenly the small driveway is full of police cars that have flashing lights and their sirens blaring. Car doors open and footsteps pound against the gravel. You shakily begin to lower your arms just as Greg charges up to you, almost colliding with you as he skids to a stop. You jump in fright as his hands go to your arms. 

 

“F/N, it’s all right,” he says breathlessly. “Just move aside.” 

 

He lets go of you and you nod and make to do so. Greg moves with you. Then you’re both turning and watching as an officer readies a battering ram. Sherlock suddenly appears beside you, gripping you reassuredly on the shoulder for a moment when you look at him and exchanging a curt nod with Greg. His long black coat and blue scarf flutter around him in the breeze. 

 

You look back as the door crashes open with a loud bang. As soon as it does so and as soon as the officer who’d opened it steps aside it’s like every inch of your skin prickles and all your instincts drive you forwards. You rush towards the door. You have to get inside. You hear an officer crying out in alarm and someone tries to grab at your arm. A gasp escapes your lips as you dodge them. 

 

“Let her,” you hear Greg growl. You sense that he’s following after you hurriedly with Sherlock at his heels. 

 

You move into the house. A gust of cool air seems to hit you and you nearly stumble against the briefcase that’s on the floor. You hesitate, before you make for the stairs. You charge up them, your hand slapping against the banister. You pick up on a strange smell about halfway up but you don’t stop. It’s like you instinctively sense where Mycroft will be. Shouts of _‘Clear!’_ come from downstairs as you head for his bedroom. 

 

As you barrage inside a gasp escapes you and you come to a sudden halt as you see Mycroft sprawled out on the floor. _“Mycroft!”_ you shriek. “Mycroft! He’s in here!” you call over your shoulder. Your eyes go back to the eldest Holmes brother. His legs and stomach are pressed into the carpet, but his shoulders and head are slightly turned off to one side. One hand is outstretched, the other cupped against his chest. He’s still wearing the clothes that he must have worn to work that day-a black three-piece suit, light blue shirt and a dark blue tie. Your heart fills with dread as you look at him. Greg and Sherlock skid into the room at the same time as you mutter, “Mycroft, oh God Mycroft,” and move instinctively towards him. You drop to your knees by Mycroft’s starkly pale face and automatically make to loosen his tie from around his neck. You place one of your hands on his shoulders and give him a tentative little shake. Tears well in your eyes. His own are shut, lips curved into a frown. He doesn’t respond. “Mycroft, please, _please”-_

 

Up until then both Sherlock and Greg had just been watching you and taking in the scene, but now Sherlock says, “Heart attack.”

 

“What?” you glance at him quickly, before you look worriedly back at Mycroft. _“No,”_ you utter in disbelief with a shake of your head at the same time that Greg says, “F/N you need to get out of here and go downstairs.”

 

Your hand grips onto Mycroft’s shoulder more securely. “No, I-I”-

 

“F/N you need to”- Greg attempts. 

 

“What part of _‘no’_ don’t you understand?” you ask him in an upset voice as you get suddenly to your feet. But any further words that you might have been about to say die on your lips as you finally come to notice what’s on the bed. There’s a woman lying there, along with a small, wooden letter ‘M.’ It looks oddly familiar to you but you can’t place it right now. The woman looks astonishingly like you, from the back anyway. You’re not sure what to make of her until you notice properly that she’s face down and still. _Dead._ You let out a gasp and stagger backwards. Greg’s hands are on your elbow in the next moment and he’s pulling you out of the room. 

 

“I-I”- you stammer, your eyes flicking to Mycroft again. Sherlock’s now crouched by him and calling for an ambulance, but you don’t want to leave him. 

 

“It’s all right,” Greg soothes, “We just need to get you downstairs.”

 

You nod falteringly and allow him to steer you. You seem to come across unrecognisable police officer after unrecognisable police officer on the way, but finally you’re being guided into the kitchen and Sally’s appearing in front of you. Greg allows her to take you from him and informs her that Mycroft’s unconscious upstairs, but that an ambulance is on its way, before he goes on his way again. 

 

“Mycroft,” you mutter stupidly to Sally who eyes you worriedly as she moves in front of you. Her hands go on your upper arms. 

 

“Yes,” she breathes, “But it’s all right F/N. You've just had a bit of a shock that’s all. Let’s sit you down.”

 

You pull away from her for a moment because it _isn't_ all right, and doesn’t she know that? You finally let her guide you to the table. She sits you down so that your back is to the narrow hallway. 

 

“I-I”- you attempt to twist around. You want to see what’s going on. More importantly than that you want to know what’s going on with Mycroft. 

 

“F/N look at me,” Sally instructs, and she sounds so commanding that you swivel back around to find that she’s now sitting opposite you. Her hands reach across the table towards you. “Just focus on me all right?” You hesitate, before you lift up your hands so that you can place them in hers. She looks at you reassuringly, before her eyes flick to a spot just behind your shoulder. You can’t know it but she’s looking at the paramedics who have just arrived and who are now entering the house. You do know however that you might be missing something important and so you attempt to look over your shoulder again. Sally’s hands grip yours. “On me,” she says as you look back at her. “Tell me what happened. You came back to visit Mycroft?”

 

You nod, whilst you keep your ears pricked to see if they can make out any sounds. “Mary and John brought me. I wanted to talk to him, b-but I couldn't, I couldn't get in. He wasn't answering his phone.” All your mind can picture is Mycroft pale and still upon the floor. You open your mouth. Your lips are trembling. Sally squeezes at your hands. You try to speak, but as soon as you hear movement on the stairs your mind is completely distracted. You begin to rise from the table. “S-Sorry, I-I have to”-

 

“F/N,” Sally gets out. She gets up too, but you’re already spinning around and stumbling down the hallway. 

 

Mycroft is being taken out to the ambulance on a stretcher. The paramedics bringing him finish coming down the stairs and start to move towards the front door just as you walk towards them. Mycroft looks as deathly pale as ever. Your heart lurches. _“Mycroft,”_ you cry, whilst tears of desperation leak out of your eye. “Oh, _Mycroft.”_ One of the paramedics who’s helping to take Mycroft out, the police officer who’s keeping the door open and another one who’s close by all glance at you. 

 

You hear a clattering on the stairs and in the next moment Greg’s beside you. “F/N you should have stayed in the kitchen,” he tells you. You can tell that he’s annoyed with Sally for letting you go. Sherlock leaves the stairs too, but his eyes don’t go to you. Instead they swivel, so that they can be completely fixed on the still form of his brother at all times. 

 

“No, I-I want to go with him,” you say, moving forwards as the paramedics begin to load Mycroft into the ambulance. You step outside. One of the paramedics looks towards you and then at Greg who’s following you. 

 

“Take him to the hospital. One of us will be along shortly,” Greg tells her. 

 

“No,” you protest, lunging towards the ambulance, and Greg darts in front of you to push you back. “I want to be with him, _someone_ needs to be with him,” you say, your hands shoving against Greg. “I don’t want him to be alone.”

 

“F/N,” Sherlock says, grabbing you suddenly by the shoulders and swinging you out of Greg’s grasp to face him. You let out a breath. Sherlock’s eyes fix on you determinedly. “Think about this. The paramedics are going to take Mycroft to hospital. They’re going to hand him over to the hospital staff and he’s going to be taken away, worked on. No one will be able to see him for an age yet.” Your breaths start to calm down and you begin to just listen. “Why waste so much time there when you can be of more use here? You can do more for Mycroft by being away from him right now.” You’re not sure about that, so you begin to open your mouth to protest. “I need to show you something,” he blurts out. “Something that I think it’s about time you saw.” You look at Sherlock curiously. But he’s wearing such a fixed expression that it makes you nod. The paramedics finish closing up the ambulance and it trundles away. Sherlock looks satisfied for the briefest of seconds by your decision, before he turns back to Greg. “I want you to remove the body of that woman from upstairs and return her to St. Barts. I think you’ll find that her death has already been registered there, and that the body matches the one you told me, which went missing only two days ago. My brother is not responsible for any foul play. He is completely innocent in all of this. You can secure the bedroom and get forensics in there like I know you’ll want to, but every other room in the house is off limits. You understand?” Greg opens his mouth. “You know the extent of my brother’s job Lestrade. I want the police that are currently moving about serving no purpose out of the way as soon as possible. My brother is very thorough and would not have left documents lying around, but they are still a security risk and have already nearly trampled upon his briefcase. There is no need for anyone more than you, one other officer and a couple of forensics people to be here. You know as well as I do who’s behind this.” Greg’s mouth opens even wider and you look in between the two men with urgent eyes. “The little ‘M’ in the bedroom?”-something prickles at you and you close your eyes-“Or do I need to be more obvious and draw you a picture?” Sherlock asks the detective mockingly. 

 

Greg’s eyes flicker anxiously to you at the exact moment that things begin to click into place. 

 

“It was Moriarty wasn't it?” you ask. “Moriarty did this, he put the body into the room. Mycroft saw it and thought”- you break off. “Oh God.” Sherlock and Greg exchange an anxious glance and move in closer to you. Your hands rake through your hair. A flash of something comes back to you through your panic. An image of a little ‘M’ that you’d picked up off your bedroom floor. You let out a little gasp and your body trembles. “He was in my room.” Again Sherlock and Greg look at one another. “Moriarty was in my room back at 221C. He must have taken some clothes from my wardrobe after the incident, there was an ‘M’ like that on the floor. I didn't think anything of it at the time. I”- you say, breaking off as you begin to wonder whether you could have done anything to prevent all this.

 

“Okay F/N, you’ve been very helpful,” Greg says, cutting off your increasingly panicked words and putting a hand upon your shoulder. “Sherlock’s going to take you back into the kitchen now and I’m going to deal with his requests and begin to get this place clear, all right?”

 

A little breath escapes you, before you nod. 

 

You feel a hand on your back and then Sherlock’s guiding you inside, down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. 

 

“Freak,” Sally murmurs, still standing by the table. 

 

“Donovan,” Sherlock nods, before he pulls out a chair for you. 

 

You sit down on it and perch on the edge of it like a nervous bird. Sherlock moves to sit opposite you. Sally leaves the room with a clearing of her throat. 

 

Sherlock eyes you for a moment. His arm rests against the table for a moment, before it moves off. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, “I'm not sure if my brother has anything that doesn’t have a fancy name, but it’s worth a shot.” 

 

You smile a little at that. You know full well that Mycroft has normal tea from when you’d stayed with him, and you know that Sherlock is more than likely aware of such a thing too. You know that he’d said such a thing to try and cheer you up and it reminds you of the chopstick incident with Mycroft. You smile for a moment, but you soon become serious again. Thinking of Mycroft hurts. “No thank you,” you murmur. 

 

Sherlock nods and fidgets again. His hand taps against the table. You shift your position. “It might interest you to know that Moriarty’s copying us. In one of the cases, before the fall he used someone who looked like me to help disgrace my name. That man had to be killed of course. I then, with the assistance of Molly Hooper”-you remember what Mycroft had said about Molly’s help being invaluable and let out a gurgle. You’d been silly getting mad at him for that-“Used that man’s body to help convince the world that I was dead. Clearly inspired by that Moriarty was obviously hoping to create a similar effect on Mycroft as I’d helped to create on John before.”

 

That revelation sinks into your mind as the house gets quieter. The ambulance comes to pick up the body first, but everyone’s forced to wait until forensics arrive and take photos, before the body of the woman can finally be removed. 

 

Time passes by slowly, and though your mind is at first rather numb and sluggish the more time that you’re just sitting there the more aware and panicked you become about what has happened. You know that Sherlock had been right in telling you that it was pointless in going to the hospital straight away, but you can’t help but wish that you _were_ with Mycroft. That you could see what’s going on. If he _dies…_ your hands tangle together. Sloppy tears begin to run down your cheeks and your lips tremble. You wipe the dampness away and try and get yourself under control. 

 

Sherlock’s tapping away at his phone. You can’t know it but he’s texting John and informing him of everything that has just happened. He glances up at you and studies you for a moment. 

 

You let out a bit of a gasping breath. “I'm fine.”

 

Sherlock nods and looks down at his phone. A moment later his lip twitches upward. “You know,” he begins conversationally, glancing up at you briefly again, “Mycroft’s been putting pressure on his heart for years, through work, _cake”-_ you let out a bit of a watery snort, _and,_ his objective achieved, Sherlock looks back down. 

 

Finally the body of the woman is taken away and Greg returns to the kitchen with Sally close behind. Sherlock and you both stand up and face them. You notice that Greg looks like he’s aged even in the short time that he’s been away. 

 

“Initial forensics are done. They might be back to take a few more photos in the morning. The bedroom’s sealed off. You’re free to walk about the rest of the house, but we’ll have to take swabs and samples from the pair of you to rule you out from any other’s that we find”-

 

“You know who we’re dealing with,” Sherlock says, taking a step forward, “You might find something that links you to a low-life member of society here, but you certainly won’t find anything that links you to Moriarty.” 

 

Greg lets out a little frustrated breath. You look in between the two men. “Be that as it may, I’d rather we at least tried to follow normal procedure for now.”

 

 _“ ‘Normal?’”_ Sherlock snorts, as if he finds Greg’s terminology funny. “Nothing is normal about”-

 

 _“Sherlock,”_ Greg interrupts, nodding his head towards you. Sherlock glances at you, before he looks back at Greg with puzzled eyes. “F/N’s been through enough tonight without you scaring her senseless,” Greg explains. Sherlock nods grudgingly. “Right,” Greg says, “We’ll be back in the morning, but we’ll leave you both to it for now.” He gives you both one last look, before he turns and makes to shuffle back down the narrow hallway. Sally shoots Sherlock a suspicious look and gives you a bit of a tight smile, before she follows suit. 

 

Sherlock follows them to the door, _and,_ feeling a little uncertain and not knowing what to do otherwise you follow him. 

 

Sally and Greg leave the house without further word. Sherlock closes the door shut behind them and proceeds to bolt it, locking you both in. “Right,” he says when he turns back to you, “Follow me.”

 

Sherlock takes Mycroft’s briefcase. You follow him to the kitchen and hover uncertainly near by, watching as Sherlock sets up the laptop on the kitchen table. He gets through all the security protocols with only a little thought. You realize then just how well Sherlock and Mycroft must know each other; realize then that they are like two cogs from the same machine. You feel a little sad when you think that you’ll probably never know either of them as well as that. 

 

Once the laptop is ready and buzzing contentedly in the background Sherlock looks back at you over his shoulder. You’d been shifting your position but you still as he does so. 

 

“You might want to take a seat,” he informs you. 

 

You swallow, before you move forwards and slip into the seat that’s closest to the laptop. 

 

Sherlock moves aside a little, before he looks at you steadily. “I'm about to show you the only footage that exists in the world of your incident,” he says, leaning towards the laptop. You look at one another. 

 

“I thought there wasn't any?” you begin. “Sally seemed to suggest that”- 

 

“Remember who we’re dealing with,” Sherlock reminds you. “This is no normal case.” 

 

You lean back from him a little, raising your eyebrows. “You sabotaged it?”

 

“Well,” Sherlock half-shrugs, “To put it more aptly my _brother_ sabotaged it.” You open your mouth. “He was trying to protect you. He knew that if the police investigation continued at pace without being shut down then it would have only meant that you’d be in even more danger.”

 

“But how could he have known that? _Really?”_ you ask, still not convinced despite everything. 

 

“You’re still not fully aware of the extent of Moriarty’s power. Here. Watch this,” Sherlock mutters impatiently, and he taps away at a few buttons, before he brings up the CCTV footage from that day. 

 

You let out a little breath when you come to see yourself, or rather the person you had been then, strolling along the pavement. You’re on the phone in baggy, over-sized clothes that don’t fit you. Clothes that must be Mycroft’s and you feel another pang. You seem completely oblivious as to what’s about to happen. Engrossed in your phone call, whilst you swing the up market looking plastic bag that you’re carrying back and forth. The top of a dress pokes out of it. It’s a f/c one just as Mycroft had stated it was. You try to make out what you’re saying, but you can’t. 

 

“You’re on the phone to Donovan,” Sherlock reminds you. 

 

You nod, before you jump a little when your eyes go to focus more on the background. Mycroft’s there, following you at a distance, close to the edge of the screen. He looks harried, but worried, and the sight of such strong emotion there clearly visible on his face surprises you. You feel Sherlock watching you, before he looks at the screen again. 

 

It happens just a moment later. A car comes out of nowhere, picking up speed as it passes Mycroft. You see Mycroft yell at you and take in the panic that’s inside his eyes. You see yourself look over your shoulder and wish that you could warn yourself. Scream at yourself to get out of the way because if you don’t then it will be the worst thing that could ever happen to you. But the car ploughs into you and you watch in horror as your body curves into an arc. Your phone and bag go flying out of your hands. Feathers from your dress soar into the air. Mycroft stops dead. Your body thuds onto the pavement and the next thing that happens is that the car reverses and scarpers away. The CCTV doesn’t pick up the high-pitched skid of the brakes as it does so. Everything seems to go so still for a moment that you wonder if that is the end of the footage and there is nothing more. But then Mycroft’s throwing his umbrella down and rushing to you and you feel such pain in your chest when he drops to the ground beside you and begins to talk to you. Such pain when you see the way that though other people begin to gather around you both he seems completely oblivious to them as he takes your hand. You feel such pain when you can tell how affected he is when he’s on the phone that you have to lean forwards and grip hard on to the table to try and make it subside. Your vision blurs as tears begin to stream down your face. All along, ever since you lost your memory, you realize, but most predominantly when you’d been in London, you’ve wanted to see the real Mycroft. Wanted to see his true self so clearly that you’d be left in no doubt as to the person he is and how he feels about you, and now you have. Now you can see that he must care. That he _must_ love you. For his emotion is so clearly visible in the footage, for once not hidden and guarded that there can be no other answer. But you can’t help but wish that you’d seen such a thing in some other circumstance. That you’d seen it when he’d been in front of you, saying something that would have made you realize such a thing and not when he’s in hospital, so far from you and going through God knows what. Little gasping noises escape your lips as you struggle to deal with everything. Sherlock puts a steadying hand on your shoulder and you nod jerkily, before he stops the footage and rewinds it. He goes back to the moment just before the car hits you and you’re about to tell him that you _really_ don’t want to see it again when he zooms in. He goes right into the car, and as you see who the driver is a jerk of breath leaves your mouth. It’s Darren and you feel like a fool. Mycroft had been right. He’d been right about everything and he’d loved you all this time and you’ve put him through hell. Tears run more quickly down your face than before and the whole of your body begins to tremble. Something begins to swirl inside you and you turn your head off to the side, before you begin to retch. Sherlock lets go of you and steps back with an expression of alarm upon his face. Nothing comes up. Your exertions slowly calm down into a pant. Sherlock stops the footage, for good this time. You swing off your chair and get up. 

 

“I want to see Mycroft,” you breathe, still shaking as you look at Sherlock. “I don’t care how late it is. I want to see him.”

 

Sherlock looks at you calculatingly for a moment. “Okay,” he nods. 

 

He switches off the laptop, returns it to its case and leads you outside, switching off the lights as he goes.

 

The night is a cold one. The chaos of the helicopter, the police cars and ambulances from earlier have left behind a silence and a ruined driveway. The gravel is all churned up. It occurs to you rather stupidly that the sight would probably displease Mycroft. You let out a bit of a snort in spite of yourself and Sherlock looks at you, clearly a little unnerved by just how much your emotions are swaying right now, before he calls for a taxi to take you both to St. Barts. 

 

Once it arrives the youngest Holmes brother and you sit restlessly in the back. Your mind keeps going back to your incident and how Mycroft had been right all this time, not to mention how foolish you’ve been. Hadn't he demonstrated to you in the Diogenes Club and in all the time that you’d stayed with him just how perceptive he’s capable of being? Yet you’d been so blinded by emotion and old hurt that you’d chosen to ignore it. You should have been more focused on the fact that you’d forgiven him once already and felt the importance of that and what that must mean at the time. You should have trusted him. There’s something that you still don’t understand though. “Why me?” you ask, glancing nervously at the driver, before you look at Sherlock. “Why target me? I'm just a scriptwriter. I'm not brave like John. I'm not stupid, but I don’t have the intelligence that you or Mycroft have. I'm not bold like Mary, driven like Sally. I can’t have Greg’s loyalty because I couldn't even remember who my friends were. I certainly don’t have Molly’s training or expertise when it comes to dead bodies. I'm neither useful or a threat in any way.”

 

Sherlock looks at you for a moment and you’re suddenly reminded of Mycroft’s thoughtful gazes. You swallow. When Sherlock shifts his fingers against his lap you’re reminded of Mycroft’s long and slender ones. You feel a sudden surge of emotion rise up inside you. “Yet you are,” Sherlock says at the same time that you let out a watery gasp. You look at him. He eyes you intently, his head slightly tilted. “You came into my life shortly after John did. I confess that I did not believe I would have yet another person who would come to regard me as a friend so soon after him. But you did.” You let out a little breath. “You slipped your way easily into our little ragtag group, and it is only more recently that I think everyone has realized how strange it is without you.” You realize that this is the closest Sherlock will ever come to telling you that he needs you, and you hope that you’ll never forget it. “You belong as much as anyone else does. You might not think it but you do.” A sudden shiver runs through you. “You asked earlier,” Sherlock goes on with a look of understanding in his eyes, “Why Moriarty would target you.” He glances at the driver cautiously, before he looks back at you. “It is my belief that he did it partly because he could understand fundamentally how important you are to everyone, something which I fear even _we_ ourselves did not realize, and partly because, and this is something that my brother shares, that Moriarty wishes to eliminate Mycroft, so that he will have clearer access to me.” You let out a little breath. “My brother has always been a very guarded man, but on the night he went to the masquerade ball he revealed that he had a weakness beyond me. _You.”_ A little gurgle escapes you. “I believe that Moriarty had perhaps suspected too for some time that my brother’s feelings were greater for you than he was letting on, as well as that he suspected what yours were for him of course. I fear in fact that he’d been planning such a thing for some time and we’d overlooked it. But on that night my brother, for whatever reason, made his feelings quite clear. Moriarty must have been thrilled that he’d done so on the night he himself chose to return.”

 

You swallow and a ripple of pain blooms inside you as you think about it all. “But that still doesn’t”-

 

“Moriarty wanted to target my brother’s heart F/N. He wanted him to orchestrate his own downfall. He could not have guessed that your memories would be lost, as could none of us. But he knew that by targeting you the very morning after the night where Mycroft had made himself so emotionally vulnerable to you it would hit him hard. Mycroft had given him the perfect opening, the chance that Moriarty had been waiting for, and Moriarty knew that by ensuring you were injured enough to be taken back to Wales he would be putting Mycroft on the edge and making his worry for you tenfold. I can only imagine Moriarty’s delight when he learnt that you couldn't remember my brother.” You feel suddenly angry. “It must have been a pleasure for him to see you trying to figure everything out. For him to see your blatant mistrust of Mycroft and of everything about the world he inhabits. A pleasure when you later returned to Wales and parted with Mycroft on bad terms. How he must have felt a rare sense of warmth fill him at watching my brother’s steady decline. A decline that he has brought upon himself. Until today when Moriarty decided to act once more. My brother must have got the biggest shock of his life seeing a figure who resembled you upon his bed dead like that. Too far gone into his own despair it would not have taken much to convince him that it was you. The recognizable clothes I feel would have been the final straw.”

 

Silent tears stream down your face at the thought of all of Mycroft’s suffering and your hands clench into fists upon your lap. There are a thousand thoughts running through your head-mostly ones of sadness for Mycroft and hate and frustration directed at both Moriarty and yourself-but there is only one that feels important enough to be voiced in that moment. One that could make all the difference. “Sh-Sherlock?” you mutter, your fisted hands smoothing your trousers as you find that you can’t look at him. “D-Do you think that Mycroft’s going to die?” It pains you just to get the question out and you close your eyes. 

 

You feel Sherlock shift against you and lean back further in his seat. When you open your eyes and dare glance at him quickly again you find that he seems to be in a state of thoughtful contemplation. “What you must know about my brother F/N, is, although he’s been putting pressure on his heart for some time, and although he does not always take care of himself the best he should he is resilient. I am sure that he will snap out of his gloomy state soon enough. Why, we might even find that he is awake and conscious when we get there. If he is not then I am sure that he will be soon enough.”

 

You swallow as you look at Sherlock. You’d wanted him to fill your heart with nothing but hope and make you feel convinced that Mycroft would most definitely be all right, but you can tell that although his words were meant to reassure you he’s just as clueless about his brother’s situation as you are. Just as lost as to what the final outcome will be. It makes you feel uneasy. 

 

You finally get to the hospital. You find that you shiver as you walk inside it, being reminded of your own stay there, and, of course, Sherlock’s fall. As you remember such a thing the harsh words that you’d spoken to Mycroft upon those dreadful memories returning also comes back to haunt you. You feel a terrible sense of guilt and sorrow. How mean you’d been to him as you’d completely lacked the ability to even try and understand. A few fresh tears trickle down your face. 

 

Sherlock glances at you. “My brother is as stubborn as an ox F/N. I fear that he will not allow himself to be carted off the earth so soon.”

 

You sniff and swipe your tears away, feeling momentarily better. 

 

Sherlock takes control at the reception and you are both directed down a set of corridors where you’re told that someone will be along to see you shortly. 

 

Sherlock and you both sit down on the uncomfortable, dark grey plastic chairs for an age, feeling cold as you stare at the chipped white paint on the wall opposite and listen to the steady thrum of the hustle and bustle that goes on inside the hospital even at this late hour. 

 

Finally an old Asian doctor who has several creased lines across his forehead and underneath a set of tired but kindly brown eyes appears before you. 

 

“You are the family of Mr. Mycroft Holmes?” he asks, looking between Sherlock and you curiously as both the consulting detective and you stand up.

 

“I am Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft’s brother,” Sherlock says, “And this,” he adds, waving a hand to you, before you can even get a single word out, “Is F/N L/N, a close friend, and, I feel sure, the soon to be girlfriend of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

 

You smile a little at that and bubbles of anticipation rise inside you. Yes, surely that will be true? Surely everything will be all right? Surely Mycroft and you will get the chance to talk about all this and sort everything out? He won’t-

 

“A pleasure to meet you both. I am Dr. Valiyev, and I have been helping to look after Mycroft since he was first brought in this evening,” the doctor says, shaking both Sherlock’s and your hands. You notice that he barely looks at you as he takes yours and the uneasiness inside you grows. “Perhaps we could have a little talk in one of the rooms near by?”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

“Oh God,” you mutter as your heart lurches. Your head goes suddenly dizzy and you sway a little. You don’t like the sound of that. 

 

Dr. Valiyev looks at you concernedly, a little awkward expression upon his face. 

 

“Come F/N,” Sherlock says, placing a steadying hand upon your back, “I am sure that everything will be all right.” He nods again at the doctor to tell him that he should begin leading you. 

 

You let out a squeak as you nod in response to Sherlock’s words and Dr. Valiyev sends Sherlock a cautious glance as if he’d rather that he forbade himself from saying such things in the present moment. He proceeds to lead you both to a room that’s just a little further down the corridor. 

 

The room is small. The walls are white and bare. A small hospital bed lies off to the right, whilst to the left lies a desk and computer. The same grey plastic chairs that look hard and uncomfortable are near by. 

 

Dr. Valiyev settles himself in one that’s close to the back of the room. Sherlock and you sit before him.

 

“Mycroft’s still alive?” you blurt out once your bottom has barely touched the chair. Your eyes bulge with the threat of more tears as they fix on the doctor. Sherlock’s hand goes to your arm and you let out a little fluttery sound of acknowledgement but don’t look at him. 

 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand tightens upon you. You let out a little gasp at the news. Relief spills into your heart. “But I'm afraid to tell you that he suffered from another heart attack in the ambulance on the way here. He went into cardiac arrest and it was difficult to get him stable again. Upon arrival he was taken for an emergency heart operation called a primary angioplasty. You should know that the procedure is used to restore blood flow to the heart and that it is successful in ninety-five per cent of cases. Indeed it seems to have worked in Mycroft’s case, but I must tell you that if he suffers from another heart attack or goes into cardiac arrest again then his chances of survival are slim.”

 

“Oh God,” you utter, rocking back and forth, “Oh God, oh God.” More tears dribble down your face. 

 

“Remember what I told you,” Sherlock says, slipping his hand down to yours and giving it a quick squeeze. The memory of Mycroft’s hand over yours in the helicopter comes back to you. You nod, trying to get your breathing back under control. 

 

“Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Valiyev says most seriously, “Though I do not wish to give either F/N here or you bad news, it is important that I be honest with you. I feel that, the circumstances being what they are, it would be right if you started to prepare for the worst. If there are any close family members that need to be contacted then I would ring them now and tell them to come. Our hope is of course that Mycroft will make a full recovery, but he has been through a lot this evening. Anyone who needs to should be able to use the opportunity to say goodbye just in case the worst should still occur.”

 

A loud sob escapes you. You don’t want to believe that Mycroft might actually die. Sherlock swings around, moves closer to you and pulls you delicately to his chest. You grip onto his back and cry into his shoulder. He holds you securely, one hand on your back and the other cupping at your hair. 

 

Dr. Valiyev takes the box of tissues off the desk and Sherlock passes you one a moment later. You lean back from him and blow your nose noisily. 

 

Sherlock checks you over with his eyes for a moment, before his gaze goes back to that of the doctor. “May we see my brother?” he asks. 

 

“Of course,” Dr. Valiyev nods, getting up. “I can take you to him at once.”

 

“Come F/N,” Sherlock says, assisting you to your feet slowly. 

 

You sniff and nod once you’re up to tell Sherlock that it is okay to let go of you again. 

 

Dr. Valiyev leads you down a couple of other corridors, before he comes to a stop outside a private room. The blinds are partly drawn down against the screen that looks into it. You swallow. Part of you wants to try and look through them, so that you can prepare yourself for what you are about to see, but another part doesn’t. In the end you don’t. 

 

“I warn you, there are many wires,” Dr. Valiyev tells you both falteringly, looking between you, before he holds the door open. 

 

You feel a trembling of something inside you. You feel scared. 

 

Sherlock takes hold of your hand. “Come,” he murmurs, guiding you into the room. 

 

He has to pull you a bit, but finally you’re both inside. 

 

Dr. Valiyev wasn't wrong. There are so many wires surrounding Mycroft, not to mention the beeps from machinery that he looks as if he is the subject of some weird alien experimentation. The bottom half of his body is covered by a white sheet, the top half on show, but how pale his skin looks beneath his chest hair and the grey, circular pads that are on his chest, no doubt monitoring his condition. His face is ghostly, eyes shut, lips even. But somehow he still manages to look beautiful, like some ancient carving of some god once lost. You wonder how you’d never properly noticed it before. 

 

“I shall leave you,” Dr. Valiyev murmurs respectfully at the same time that Sherlock lets go of you. 

 

You both turn to him and nod, before you look at one another once he is gone. A little gurgle escapes your lips. 

 

“I am going to leave you with him for a while,” Sherlock informs you, “I feel that you have much to say.” You nod falteringly. “I was not intending to call my parents until the morning, but since”- he breaks off with a bit of a shrug and a wave of his hand towards Mycroft. 

 

“Call them,” you insist, placing a hand upon his shoulder.

 

Sherlock nods and smiles grimly at you.

 

You let go of him and force a smile at him in return. But as soon as he leaves and you turn back to Mycroft your heart feels more heavy than its done all night. 

 

You pad across to the singular chair that’s by his bedside-as gloomy and grey as the rest-and put your rucksack down beside it, before you sit down on it so that your back is facing the door. Your throat feels tight as you look at him. Your mind momentarily numb until all the thoughts flood up inside you once more and burst out. “P-Please don’t die,” you blurt out, whilst sloppy tears fly from your eyes and you grasp suddenly at his hand. You stare at it hard for a moment, taking in the freckles there, before you watch as your thumb begins to carefully stroke at his cold skin. “Y-You see I know now. I know that you were right about Darren. More importantly I-I know how you feel. I'm sorry that its taken me so long”-you break off and attempt a smile, but it soon turns into a worried frown. “I-I don’t get, with how I feel now, why I still can’t remember anything more about us. I-I'm sorry. I wish-I wish I could. I wish I could remember every moment. I wish I could completely feel how important you are to me. B-But I want you to know that I'm beginning to, a-and that’s another reason you can’t die.” You rub more forcefully at his hand. “You can’t die Mycroft. You can’t. You see I'm finally starting to make sense of things. _Us._ I get that I belong in London now and I want you to be there. I want you to smile at me again and make me feel like I don’t know what’s happening on my insides.” You smile at him in a watery fashion. “I want you to read me poetry. I want us to be there for each other and take care of one another…I'm finally ready to admit the answer to your question before, and that’s, that I reacted so strongly because I love you. I’ve loved you all this time and I didn't properly realize it until tonight.” You let out a little gasp. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Your hand stills upon his and you bury your head into his side. For a moment you just cry there, dampening the white bed cover with your tears, but finally you lift your head up again. Your hair sticks to your lips and your breaths leave you in a pant. You squeeze at his hand. “That’s why I couldn't forgive you so easily. That’s why it hurt so much, but what hurts even more is seeing you like this. I can’t-I can’t bear it. I can’t bear the thought that you might leave this earth without ever being aware of the fact that I know so much now, that you might leave it thinking me dead. I'm not dead Mycroft. I'm right here,” you say, wiping the tears from your face. “I'm right here and I'm ready to love you. Oh God,” you choke, gripping onto his hand more insistently and leaning forwards. “You spoke of punishment before and this is mine isn't it? This is mine for being so foolish and stupid all this time. You’re right. I am a goldfish. You’re never going to know just how much I love you. You’re going to leave thinking that I died hating you, believing that all hope is lost when it isn't.” More tears run down your cheeks and your body trembles. “I'm right here Mycroft! I'm right here! For God’s sake can’t you hear me? Can’t you sense that I'm right here? _Please!_ You must be able to hear me!” You plead desperately. When you realize just how much you’re leaning forwards and just how much you’d raised your voice however you lean back again. Mycroft’s still as unmoving as ever and you can’t bear it. You look around desperately. You miss the brief troubled flicker of something that occurs beneath Mycroft’s eyes as you do so. “This is my fault,” you murmur resignedly in a firm fashion. You look back at him. “I did this to you. I put you in here. Not Moriarty. _Me._ If I’d stopped being so emotional about everything and just listened to you. If I’d just _believed_ you,” your voice is strained as you swallow and return to looking at his hand rather than his face. Your hand shifts against it, your fingers curling slightly around the tips of his. “I can’t even imagine,” you go on, your voice catching slightly as you cry and shake some more, “How awful its been for you. What I’ve put you through ever since the night of the ball. How soul destroying it must have been for you to realize that I did not know you. That you’d basically have to start our entire relationship from scratch. I cannot imagine the heartache you’ve endured; not only because of that, but also because of the way I’ve treated you so coldly, so _suspiciously._ You let me glimpse a little of that pain when you hinted at it during our argument in the Diogenes Club, but still I did not understand. I failed to grasp your pain, and I failed to understand the loneliness and the great isolation that you must have felt because of it. I will probably never be able to make it up to you. But I will damn well try, and I am begging you Mycroft, if you have any say in this, if you can hear me at all then please know that, know that I will do my best to be there for you, that I understand, that I love you. That more importantly I forgive you for a second time. I know why you did what you did then and I know why you have behaved the way you have since. You were protecting me. Protecting us all. You were right. You _are_ honourable and decent, and I want to spend the rest of my life loving you.” You tighten your grip on his fingers. You hold them tight, narrow your eyes and try to imagine that he’s squeezing them back. He isn't. Instead he just lies there, still motionless and apparently oblivious to it all. You let out a little choked sob and look away. “Oh God,” you utter as you realize that this is actually happening. Mycroft is actually dying and no amount of heart felt words are going to bring him back. “It’s too late isn't it?” you whimper. “I’ve realized everything too late. Oh God. _God,”_ you say as you feel a pain in your own chest. You rock back and forth a little, beginning to stroke frantically at Mycroft’s hand. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but please don’t die. Come back to me. Give me a second chance. P-Please don’t die Mycroft.” You let go of him at the same time that his fingers twitch, before they shift ever so slightly against the bed covering. You don’t notice such movement however for you push your head back down into the bed, butting against Mycroft’s side, whilst your hands move a little, scraping against the covering. You sob in earnest; your head shifting a little, whilst gasps pour out of your mouth. 

 

Mycroft feels as if he’s walking through a white, blank nothingness. His head feels heavy and as he looks around this barren landscape he feels confused. He moves forwards, trying to figure a way out. He can hear a voice speaking in the distance. He cannot make out the words or indeed know whether it is speaking to him, but because he can hear it he tries to go towards it nonetheless. As he does so he realizes that the voice is not speaking, but _crying._ In reality something troubled flickers beneath his eyelids. There is something familiar about that sound. He must wake up. He must force himself out of this. With a struggle he wrenches his eyes open, shifting up a little as he does so. His eyes take great effort to adjust for a moment and he pulls a bit of a face as he blinks profusely. The smell of disinfectant hits his nose and pain resides in his chest, before finally everything seems to still before him and his senses calm down enough to be able to focus on the snuffling noises that seem to be coming from further down his body. Confused, Mycroft uses his elbows to lift himself up, tilting his chin down as he does so. A jerk of breath escapes him when he sees a figure who could only be you crying there. You’re sitting down but hunched right over towards him. He cannot see any of your face. Instead all he can see is a mound of bedraggled h/c hair. Whilst he can feel the soft vibration that comes from your cries. Your presence makes little sense to him. All he can conclude is that you’re now both dead and he’s been lucky enough to have you pick him up and show him where he’s supposed to go next. Still, he thinks, that doesn’t explain _why_ you’re crying or so upset. It can’t be because of him. Regardless of that though he knows that he wants to comfort you. You might hate him but he could never feel such a way towards you. Still, he’s not sure _how_ you’ll react, so he very tentatively lifts the hand that’s furthest from you, shifts a little and makes to pat you awkwardly on the hair. You stiffen up completely for a moment and your sobs subside. But then, and Mycroft can only attribute this to some kind of shock or that you simply think it a trick of your imagination, you relax again. Mycroft feels your tears start a moment later. Hears you snuffling into his side. He swallows. You might be dead and there might be very little that he can do to protect you now, but he does not want to either see or hear you cry like this. He begins to stroke at your hair again, more firmly and more persistently this time, hoping that you’ll realize he’s with you. Again you stiffen somewhat and your latest sob catches in your throat. He cannot know it but your eyes are widening. His cracked, dry lips part at the same time that you lift your head up. You just gape at him in amazement, taking in those blue eyes that you thought you’d never see again. Whilst Mycroft stares at the pools of water in your e/c eyes in a gentle fashion and wonders what on earth could have caused them. 

 

“Oh my God,” you choke out, rising to your feet and slapping at Mycroft’s shoulder hard with your hand. Mycroft jumps. He knows you hate him, but he hadn’t expected you to react violently towards him all the same. “I thought you were dead!” you screech out, whilst tears of astonishment spurt from your eyes. You stand there panting over him, your eyes wide and red-rimmed as if you can’t believe it. 

 

“Am I not?” Mycroft asks, calmly considering the situation. He stares at you with a furrowed brow. 

 

You open your mouth at the same time that a nurse, no doubt having heard the commotion, comes in. Her brown hair is scraped away from her face and her green eyes take in the scene. 

 

“It’s nice to have you back here with us in the land of the living Mr. Holmes,” she says, “You gave everyone quite a fright. Not to mention this poor young lady”-Mycroft eyes you with a sort of suspicious surprise and you look down, feeling embarrassed about all the things that you’d said by his bedside, even though they’d been true-“Your brother has called your parents and they’re on their way here. I'm sure since they’re expecting you to be on your death bed you being awake will be a very nice surprise for them.” 

 

Mycroft mutters something about, ‘Unnecessary fuss,’ which causes the nurse to tut and you to let out a disbelieving snort, before the nurse goes to do some initial checks, jotting things down onto a clipboard that’s at the bottom of Mycroft’s bed.

 

You step back to give her some space, but Mycroft and you cannot keep your eyes off one another. It’s as if you can scarcely believe that the other is there. You are so taken up with analysing each other in fact that neither of you notice the way that Sherlock’s head quickly appears behind the window on the door, before he withdraws it again.

 

Even the nurse seems to notice the great focus that Mycroft and you have for each other. “There’ll be plenty of time for all that later,” she says, eyeing the pair of you knowingly. Mycroft and you finally break off your eye contact with a blush. 

 

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft remarks coolly once the nurse has gone and you’ve sunk down into the seat by his bedside again. “I saw your body. It was on the bed. If you and everyone else are merely pretending that we’re both alive to somehow ease the transition process then I’d rather”-

 

“I _am_ alive,” you murmur, standing up again. You take his hand gently in yours, before you press it against your heart. Mycroft’s hand shifts beneath yours for a moment, before his eyes widen. 

 

“Then it must be a dream,” Mycroft murmurs, his eyes to the side of you as his mind comes up with the only logical solution that is left. 

 

You frown for a moment, before you feel his heart with your free hand as if to reassure yourself that the possibility he’s mentioned is not an option. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes widen and a gasp of breath leaves him at the feel of your hand on his bare chest. He looks down at it in astonishment. “Surely a dream,” he utters, his eyes going back to yours. He does not understand why they look at him in such a gentle fashion. 

 

“No,” you shake your head, “Not a dream.”

 

Mycroft begins to feel more panicked. This can’t be real. “You are dead,” he utters. “You cannot be”- he breaks off, his hand moving from your heart to your wrist. He feels your pulse. It is just as steady as the thump-thump of your heart was. He lets go of you altogether. He struggles to sit up more properly and your hand jerks off his chest. _“Please,”_ he mutters, his voice strained. “I don’t know if you are in my sub-conscious, my mind palace or what, but please stop lying to me. Please stop trying to fool me. You are dead. I hate that it is true, but it is. I-I failed you”- he breaks off and looks away. 

 

Your lip trembles and tears spill down your face. You hate seeing him this way. Your hand instinctively moves towards his face. Your thumb strokes across his cheek. Mycroft’s head tilts back away from yours for the briefest of moments and his cheek jostles against your hand. “You have not failed me,” you murmur, withdrawing your hand slowly. 

 

Mycroft looks at you suspiciously and you are surprised to see that tears of his own fill his eyes. “Please do not say that when it is true.” His hands clench into fists and a greater pain simmers inside his chest, making him feel sore all over. “I have,” he adds firmly, “You expect me to believe that this is reality with you here, being kind to me by my bedside, but we parted on bad terms. We haven’t spoken in weeks. I am quite sure that you don’t want anything to do with me. You would not be by my bedside now even if you weren’t dead. You would not be looking at me the way you are or daring to touch me. You would be in Wales. Miles away.” He looks away with an air of resignation. 

 

You sink back down into the seat with a little sigh. You look down for a moment and your hands tangle together in your lap. Mycroft eyes you warily. “I know,” you begin, “That after everything, the way I treated you, it will be hard to believe, but I _was_ on my way to see you. John and Mary brought me back”-Mycroft mouths their names-“I wanted to talk to you,” you bravely look up at him, “To try and talk to you calmly about all this like you wanted. They-They dropped me off outside your house, but I couldn't get in. I called Greg and Sherlock. They came with a load of police officers who got the door open. I found you in your room”- you break off and look down. You don’t want to remember the dreadful sight of Mycroft on the floor, but it comes back to haunt your mind anyway. 

 

Mycroft eyes you calculatingly as his hand reaches towards you instinctively. He gets the very odd feeling that you’re telling him the truth. You look up at him at the same time that his hand has nearly made contact with you. Mycroft jerks it back and begins to withdraw it, but you look almost relieved to see it and you let out a little choked breath. Feeling more reassured Mycroft cups delicately at your cheek and you hold his hand there. You stare at each other for a long moment. 

 

“If you were really there,” Mycroft murmurs, still struggling to believe it all, “Then you must have seen”-

 

“The body,” you nod, before you go on to elaborate, “According to Sherlock, Moriarty put it there. H-He said that something similar was done at-at the time of the fall”- you break off and look down, your eyes roaming searchingly across your lap. 

 

Mycroft’s hand slides to your chin so that he can tilt your head upwards. “I did not mean to hurt you,” he says. 

 

“I know.” 

 

Mycroft looks at you disbelievingly. “Moriarty’s men had their eye on all of Sherlock’s associates. I knew that I would be a target and I was worried that if I treated you more favourably than the rest you would become a greater priority for them because of it.” Mycroft swallows. “I could not have you getting hurt F/N. As you can probably tell from what happened tonight my heart would have broken because of it.”

 

You can feel your cheeks growing warmer as you eye him. If he’d had his hand on your heart then he would have felt it flipping apprehensively. Still though, you cannot help but mention, “When Sherlock came back, if-if what’s come back to me is right, you still didn't talk to me. If I'm right then nothing actually happened between us until the masquerade ball, so, I guess w-what I'm wondering is, what changed?”

 

Mycroft lets out a little breath. What a minefield that is! His hand drops from your face. You catch it in between yours and hold it to your lap. Mycroft’s eyes soften, before they harden a little as he confesses, “You are quite right. We didn't speak as perhaps I would have liked us to even when Sherlock returned. I felt it best to maintain some distance from you. I thought again that I would be doing the right thing towards your protection.” You open your mouth, about to repeat your question. Mycroft grasps at one of your hands and squeezes it delicately to stop you. “As for the masquerade ball,” he goes on, looking suddenly sheepish, “I am afraid that all that changed was that I simply could not suppress my selfish desire for you any longer. I could see how popular you were with my brother and everyone else. I knew it could only be a matter of time, before you dated one of them. I could not bear the idea, and so, feeling like I had little choice, I attended the ball with the aim of not only keeping an eye on everyone else, but also of hopefully restoring things between us a little. So you see, just like more recent times I am afraid, that when it came down to it, I was unable to do the right thing and turn my back on you. I am very sorry my dear. I greatly believed that my will was stronger.”

 

You stroke his hand. “Perhaps, in the end, you _did_ do the right thing.”

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I should have stayed away that night. You would not have suffered all you had if I’d been a bit stronger.”

 

“But perhaps we would have both just carried on being unhappy?” you suggest. 

 

“Isn't that what we've been doing anyway?” Mycroft points out. 

 

Your hand stills on his and you lean a little closer to him. “But don’t you think that we have a chance for something better now? Can’t you feel it?”

 

Mycroft’s lips part, before he closes them again and swallows quickly. “There is something else that you have to know. Something that I should have told you when you asked about it on the helicopter before,” he says abruptly, shifting his position. Your heart lurches a little inside your chest. “I did not sack the driver. I only gave him a few days leave because he seemed to find the way that I was acting towards you funny.” You lean closer to him. Your faces are now just inches apart. Mycroft jerks his head back a little and watches as one of his hands caresses your hair for a moment. His slightly widened eyes return to you. You’re looking at him intently, your eyes gazing at him and your lips slightly parted. Mycroft clears his throat. “He found it funny because I-well it’s like I said before F/N. I’ve only ever had family and work to think of. He’d never seen me act that way towards anyone, but I guess, what I'm trying to say is, even though, even though things are slightly different between you and I, if I had to then, as much as it would”- you place a finger over his lips to cut off his rambling. Mycroft looks at you in astonishment. A little muffled sound of surprise leaves his lips and you feel the air from it curl around your finger. 

 

“I know,” you murmur, releasing your finger slowly from him and leaning back a little. 

 

“You _know?”_ Mycroft asks incredulously. 

 

You nod with a bit of a smile. “Yes. Sherlock showed me the footage from the incident. I get that you were right about Darren and everyone else. I know that it must have been so hard for you after my incident, a-and I'm so sorry for-for not trusting in you any sooner. This whole thing, the reason that you’re here; it’s my entire fault. I put that stress on you.” Mycroft’s mouth opens and closes. You shift closer to him and let out a little breath. “I also get that you’d do it again if you had to because that’s the sort of man you are.” Again Mycroft’s mouth opens. “Honourable and decent,” you tell him with a watery smile. Mycroft’s lips fall into a gentle one and he strokes at your hair. You let out a tremulous breath and look down. Your hands fidget momentarily, before you look back up at him again. 

 

“What is it?” Mycroft murmurs. 

 

“I love you,” you confess, smiling more, and your eyes are full of tears. It feels such a relief to get those three words out, especially when he can hear you. 

 

Mycroft lets out a soft breath and shifts until he’s lying back down properly on his back. You peer at him anxiously. This is not the response that you’d been hoping for. “My dear, I must be dreaming,” is all that he says in a contented fashion, before he drifts off into sleep. 

 

You let out a nervous burst of laughter, before you stroke at his hand, get up and kiss him gently on the forehead. You really do love this man. “You’re not dreaming,” you tell him seriously, before you pick up your rucksack, glance at him one last time and leave. 

 

You meet Sherlock in the corridor. 

 

“He’s gone to sleep,” you tell him, “But I think-I think he’s going to be all right now.” It’s such a relief to get those words out that you start crying again. You dab at your eyes, feeling silly. 

 

“I’ve updated my parents and told them that Mycroft’s awake and on the mend. They’re still coming, but since the situation now isn't quite as severe as it was they’re going to hold off seeing him until tomorrow,” Sherlock informs you. You nod. “I think in the meantime it would be sensible for us, or for you anyway, to get some rest. We can go back to Baker Street”-you open your mouth-“Or we can keep Mycroft’s old house company.”

 

“I think I’d like the latter idea,” you respond shyly. 

 

“I thought you would,” Sherlock says knowingly, and it’s not too long, before you’re waltzing out of the hospital and into the darkness once more. 

 

It’s pitch black and freezing. You realize on the cab journey just how tired you are. You spend a lot of it yawning and trying not to drop off against Sherlock’s shoulder. You feel a lot more content and at ease than you had done on the way in. 

 

You stand sleepily with folded arms as Sherlock unlocks the door. As you follow him inside he switches the hallway light on and leads you into the kitchen. 

 

You drink tea together by the table. You sense that Sherlock’s mind is racing, but yours is far too tired for thought, let alone to string a sentence together, so you just sit there quietly instead. It’s not long, what with the warm tea now swirling inside you, before you start to fall asleep, your head dropping down onto your shoulder. You come back to life at the sound of Sherlock’s snort. 

 

“You can take one of the spare rooms, but I’ll sleep down here. Someone needs to keep an eye out,” he tells you seriously, whilst you blink copiously. 

 

“Are-Are you sure?” you ask in between a yawn. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says with a little roll of his eyes. You nod at him gratefully, before you take your cup to the sink. 

 

You rinse it out without care and wipe your hands briefly, before you move to go past the kitchen table and back into the hallway. “Night then,” you tell Sherlock. 

 

“Goodnight F/N,” he smiles. 

 

You give him a brief smile of your own back over your shoulder, before you stumble upstairs, taking your rucksack with you and yawning the whole way. 

 

You change clumsily into your pyjamas and your head barely hits the pillow, before you fall into a deep sleep.


	7. Affected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about your incident finally comes to light and you get an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for all of your support! :) 
> 
> Much love to you all. :)

“F/N F/N?” you wake to the feel of someone shaking you. 

 

 _“Wha”-_ you mutter, opening your eyes blearily and sitting up. 

 

Sherlock who’d had his hand on one of your shoulders steps back from you. “It’s time to get up,” he murmurs. 

 

You blink stupidly up at him, adjusting your pyjama top and staring up at him questioningly, before you come to take in more of your surroundings. You wonder where on earth you are for a moment, before it all comes back to you. _“Mycroft,”_ you utter, suddenly feeling more awake. 

 

“He’s fine as far as I know,” Sherlock informs you, and you instantly let out a sigh of relief. _“Though,”_ he adds, and his lip quirks upward, “I can see that changing all too soon if he finds out what you’ve done.” Your face pales and your lips part. Your insides go cold and you feel horrified at the thought that you might have done something to upset Mycroft when you’d only just made up. You might have wondered if you hadn’t dreamt making up with him if you hadn’t been so filled with the horror of finding him on the floor and then fretting and crying at the hospital. You know that you couldn't have made _those_ things up. Sherlock’s smile just grows. “Do you always drool on your pillow or did you only do so last night because you dreamt of him?” You let out a choked snort of disbelief, before your face relaxes into an expression of mock outrage. You whip around and toss one of the cushions at him. Sherlock dodges it and leaves the room, chuckling pleasantly as he goes. You stare after him with an amused smile, before you blush when your eyes catch sight of the small, circular wet stain that’s on your pillow. You _had_ dreamt of Mycroft last night, dreamt of being in his arms and dancing slowly with him, your eyes upon the other. Dreamt of his soft smile and the brush of his hair against yours as he’d ducked his head down so that you could be cheek to cheek, but you’ll be damned if you tell his bugger of a brother that. 

 

You dress quickly and take a hurried breakfast, before Sherlock and you both make your way to hospital. You grow a little anxious. What if last night, as pleasant as things had grown between Mycroft and you once he’d awoken, had just been a false impression? What if he’d masked how ill he really was and taken a turn for the worse? Yes, you’d said a lot of meaningful things, but you don’t want him to die, not when you’re finally getting a sense of the future. You know, of course, deep down that the hospital would have contacted Sherlock if such a thing had happened, and that the consulting detective would have then gone on to tell you, but you can’t seem to convince your mind of that. Whilst even if Mycroft is all right, what if, now that he’s had a chance to think a little more about things, he’s decided that all of your wrongs against him are too great for him to forgive? What if you’re going to step inside there and he’s going to tell you that he never wants to see you again? Your hands fidget anxiously against one another. 

 

Sherlock tilts his head towards you. “What is my brother like F/N?” Sherlock asks you in a knowing tone. 

 

“An ox,” you reply with a bit of a tentative smile. 

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock nods, “And after making it up with you he’s even less likely to die, believe me,” he adds dryly. 

 

Your body fills up with a different kind of nerves and you shift your position. 

 

At the hospital Sherlock blusters in just as confidently as he’d done before. He gives the reception a miss this time and just strides right up to Mycroft’s room. He makes to enter that with just as little fuss too, but as soon as the door is ajar and you make out the sight of two people who must be Mycroft’s parents sitting with him as they face the door, you draw back. Sherlock senses your sudden withdrawal and reverses himself, letting the door fall shut again. Neither of you see how Mycroft’s parents look up nor how Mycroft looks across, before their eyes go back to each other again. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes look puzzled, whilst Mycroft looks less so. Back in the corridor Sherlock turns to you with a questioning look in his eyes. 

 

“If-If you just want some family time together then I can”- you break off awkwardly, waving a hand.

 

Sherlock lets out a snort. “We haven’t had family time together in _years,”_ he says, before he seems to think about the matter some more and goes on to correct himself, “Not by choice anyway.” You smile a little awkwardly. “Come,” he says, grabbing at your hand and leading you in. 

 

You follow him apprehensively. Seeing Mycroft again will be complicated enough, but seeing his _parents…_ well, that’s just an extra thing that you’re not sure if you’re ready for. 

 

Everyone looks across at the pair of you. 

 

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Holmes says as her son walks across confidently to her, “I thought it was you.” You hover by the door, whilst both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stand up to hug their youngest son briefly. Preferring not to look at them you find that your eyes go to Mycroft instead. He’s sitting up in bed and still so pale and tired looking, but the faint smile that’s on his face as he watches Sherlock interacting with their parents tells you that he’s quite content on the whole. His eyes go to you and you duck your head, feeling embarrassed, but you cannot help the small smile that begins to play about your lips. “Who’s this?” Mrs. Holmes asks, and as you look up you realize suddenly that everyone’s staring at you. Her eyes go back to her youngest son. “Don’t tell me that you’ve finally found yourself a girlfriend Sherlock?” she asks, and she sounds so delighted by the prospect that it makes you wince. 

 

“No,” Sherlock says a little awkwardly. But a smile soon toys about his face as he says; “I think I’ll let Mycroft introduce you to her though.”

 

Mycroft and you exchange a glance at that. You can tell as his eyebrows rise that he’s asking you if he can tell the truth. You incline your head a tiny fraction to say that it’s okay with you as long as it’s fine by him. 

 

“Well Mycroft?” Mrs. Holmes asks expectantly, her attention now completely fixed on her eldest son. 

 

Mycroft only glances at her quickly, before his eyes go back to you again. Your breath hitches in your chest at his soft, studious gaze. Slowly he extends his hand towards you. You eye it cautiously for a moment, before you let out a relieved kind of breath when he wriggles his fingers. You go across and gently slip your hand into his. 

 

 _“Mykie?”_ Mrs. Holmes asks persistently, and when both Mycroft and your attention go to her it is to discover that her body is practically quivering with excitement at this new possibility. 

 

Mycroft’s hand moves to hold yours in a gentlemanly fashion as he finally says, “This is a new development Mummy, so I beg you to keep calm.” He lets out a little breath. “As recent as last night in fact. But F/N L/N”-his fingers tighten upon yours a little, and as you look at him you feel like you’re holding your breath-“And I, are now, as they would say, dating.”

 

You let out a little breath and glance quickly at his mother, before you look down at him. He meets your gaze reasonably evenly, but there is a light shining in his eyes that wasn't there before. Both of your lips quirk upward as you look at one another. 

 

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Holmes says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes as she clutches at her chest and looks as if she might be about to have a heart attack herself. “What wonderful news!” She staggers back and Mr. Holmes steadies her by putting his hands upon her shoulders. You see though that he too seems to be pleased by this development, if the way that his eyes are twinkling is anything to go by and you can’t help but smile, feeling relieved. Mrs. Holmes steps forwards and her husband lets go of her. “Why have I not heard of F/N before?” she interrogates her son. 

 

“Erm”- Mycroft gets out, before he breaks off and looks at you apologetically. You shake your head to tell him that it’s quite all right. You wouldn't have expected him to mention you to his parents. The past you hadn’t spoken about him to yours after all. Mycroft eyes his mother again, looking as if he’s filled with a greater sense of confidence. “If you really must know Mummy,” he begins, “Then it was because I figured that you would see through my guise the moment that I mentioned her to you, and things were quite complicated enough as it was”-

 

Mrs. Holmes waves a hand. _“Complicated,”_ she mutters scornfully, before her face softens considerably as she looks between you, “What on earth can be complicated between two people in love?” Mycroft and you both swallow, before you share a meaningful glance. Sherlock makes a sound of derision. “Now,” Mrs. Holmes says, bustling towards you, “Tell me about yourself F/N. I must know everything about you.” She draws your hand away from Mycroft’s and cups both of yours in between hers. 

 

“I’m sure F/N did not come here to be interrogated Mummy,” Mycroft comments a little awkwardly as he brushes some fluff off his bed covering. 

 

Mrs. Holmes waves a hand at him. “Nonsense. I'm sure F/N doesn’t mind having a conversation.”

 

“No, I don’t,” you smile a little awkwardly at her. Mycroft and Sherlock exchange a knowing glance. They both identify that you might end up regretting saying that. “I-It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” you add, nodding over Mrs. Holmes’s shoulder at Mycroft’s father.

 

“Call us Violet and Edwin dear,” Violet says, patting at your shoulders and again making you smile in a rather forced fashion. “Now tell me,” she says, “What is it that you do?”

 

“Well, I'm trying to be a scriptwriter,” comes out of your mouth automatically, but you instantly pull a face when you wonder if that’s really true any more. You haven’t even touched a script since November after all and it is now January. 

 

“F/N’s actually recovering from an incident herself right now Mummy,” Mycroft says, taking one of your hands again and holding it soothingly when he sees your expression. 

 

 _“Oh?”_ Violet asks, whilst you look down, twist your hand and toy with Mycroft’s fingers. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft murmurs, and there’s a quiet intensity about his tone, “She was involved in a hit and run back in November. Someone knocked her down without any thought and I'm sorry to say that she lost a great portion of her more recent memories because of it. It’s only lately that she’s started to come back to herself.” 

 

“What a dreadful thing to happen,” Violet says, looking at you sympathetically, whilst Edwin’s lips part behind her. “I am very sorry to hear that dear,” Violet says, patting at your free hand, “People can be so very reckless these days.” 

 

“Thank you,” you say, forcing a smile at her.

 

Violet seems to think about the matter for a moment more. Suddenly something ripples over her face. “Is that how,” she begins, coming out of her thought, “The pair of you got closer?” She looks between you with a growing excitement in her eyes. “Because my Mykie was helping you?” She clasps her hands together. “I always said he has such a soft heart.” Mycroft pulls a face. Sherlock snorts and then hurriedly turns it into a cough when Mycroft glares at him. 

 

“Not exactly Mrs. Holmes,” you say, thinking that you better be honest with her and her attention goes to you. “I'm from Wales you see. Ever since my incident I’ve been living back there with my parents.”

 

Violet’s lips part at once. “Well, we can’t have that,” she says forcefully, looking between you, “You must live and create a home together.”

 

Mycroft shifts his position. “I'm sure we’ll figure something more reasonable out Mummy,” he says. 

 

Your heart flips a little nervously. You may be happy with the way that things are progressing, but the future’s still a scary place to you. As soon as you see Violet’s lips parting and you can tell that she’s about to protest however you get out automatically, “Of course I intend to stay with Mycroft for a little while once he gets out of hospital, to look after him and all.” As soon as you realize what you’ve said however you look at Mycroft and say, “If-If that’s all right?”

 

Mycroft nods, looking taken with the idea. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, I think I’d quite like that.” He smiles at you and you give him one in return, feeling more confident as well as a fluttering of something inside your stomach. 

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters; “You wouldn't have said that if you could have seen what she did to one of your pillows last night.” A blush instantly rises to your cheeks and you open and close your mouth helplessly, looking between them all, whilst Violet eyes you curiously. Sherlock however goes on; “She drooled all over it, no doubt after dreaming about you.” 

 

A burst of pleasant laughter erupts around the room and you notice that Mycroft suddenly looks embarrassed, before you look down sheepishly. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ Violet chuckles, “What a delight things have turned out to be. Never mind my youngest though. It’s very kind of you to offer to stay there,” Violet gushes, looking at you approvingly. 

 

You really feel like you don’t deserve such praise. “Oh, it’s really no bother,” you say, and you exchange a shy glance with Mycroft, before you look away from everyone again. 

 

“Perhaps you could”- Mycroft begins, about to suggest that you should sit down now that the introductions have properly been made, but he breaks off when all of a sudden there’s a commotion outside. The next moment your parents are bursting inside, followed closely by the Watsons. 

 

You gawp at them, but Violet Holmes wastes no time in moving forwards. “Excuse me, what is the meaning of this?” she confronts them, “My son is ill”-

 

“He’s not ill enough to stop trying to control our daughter,” your mother huffs. 

 

“Excuse me? Do you care to say what on earth you mean by that?” Violet asks, clearly outraged as she steps closer to your mother. 

 

“Mother _please,”_ you breathe, moving towards them both yourself. 

 

Violet looks back at you and seems to properly realize that the woman she’s confronting is your mother.

 

Your mother however just ignores you and blusters on, “Your son has been dragging my girl here when she’s not well! First on a foolish trip that she came back from looking more lost than ever, then by making her get it in her head that she has to come back here and speak with him again. Well I won’t have it. F/N”-she finally looks properly at you-“This has gone on for long enough. You’re coming back with us right this instant.”

 

You’re reminded suddenly of what John had said just yesterday about how Mycroft and you have been making yourselves ill over all this and how everything has gone on long enough. “No,” you shake your head, thinking that it’s about time you took a stand, “I'm not going back.”

 

 _“F/N,”_ your mother begins in a tone that says you will not defy her on this. She steps forwards. 

 

“I love him,” you blurt out, spinning around and going back to Mycroft. He lets out a bit of a breath as you swivel around again, slip your hands protectively over his shoulders and lean sideways into him. Your e/c eyes shine with hurt as you look back to your mother. “I love him and I want to be with him.”

 

“F/N for goodness sake, don’t be so ridiculous,” your mother scoffs. 

 

“You should listen to your daughter,” Violet says, before you can reply. Your mother eyes her. “She seems to be a kind, sensible girl. More than that she seems to know what she wants. I don’t know what ideas you’ve got in your head about my boy or where you’ve had them from, but let me tell you”-

 

“I’ll tell you what I’ve heard about _‘your’_ boy shall I?” your mother interrupts, and fire seems to crackle from her eyes as she stands there facing you all. 

 

 _“Mum,”_ you utter desperately, and as tears fill your eyes your body begins to tremble. 

 

Mycroft feels a twinge in his chest, but he ignores it, choosing to look up at you concernedly instead. 

 

“Yes, I think you should,” Violet says, folding her arms and ignoring both her son and you as her gaze completely fixes on that of your mother. 

 

Your father moves forwards and seems to whisper something into your mother’s ear. She shakes her head and moves further into the room. “When my daughter first moved to London I got a visit about a month later,” she says. Your body stills. You’d never heard of such a visit before. “A man called. He wouldn't reveal his identity. He seemed quite plain, but he said that he was concerned about you F/N and the type of people that you’d begun to associate yourself with. That’s all he came out with. Just on the doorstep like that. The visit unnerved me. I shared how odd it had been with your father that night. He said that it was probably just some friend of yours playing a stupid trick and that I should ignore it. I did for a while, but we began to get strange phone calls saying much the same. Whenever I tried to question them they hung up. We received further visits too. I started to think that there might be something in the words. Started to think that this might even be an act of God. That _He_ was trying to get our attention, so we could act on it and protect you. I mentioned the matter to your sister and asked if she might tentatively try and find out more about your life in London. I think she thought I was overreacting, but she did ask. As did I when you visited and sometimes when I called you on the phone. Although you didn't reveal much I couldn't deny that you seemed different since you’d moved to London, _changed,_ more _alive_ somehow, and that terrified me. My uneasiness grew, as did the amount of phone calls and visits. It was like having the devil whispering inside my ear.” Something prickles inside you and your eyes momentarily shut. You stumble a little to the side and Mycroft’s hand curls around your waist to steady you. You look at him gratefully. He studies you. “Finally, one day when I received a visit I snapped. I asked that man why he was telling me about such things and what I could do about it. He said that he was an interested party and that he was telling me it all because he didn't want someone as young and talented as my daughter to waste her life stuck amongst a bad crowd. He said that something could be done if I just gave the word that I wanted it to be. He said that with the type of career you wanted you could write anywhere, and find another job easily enough if it came to it. He said that he could make it so that you could come back to Wales, so that you’d be safe.” She looks back to you and your heart plummets. 

 

“So basically he just told you everything you wanted to hear and you listened to him?” you begin, before you utter, “Oh God,” when the exact implication of her words starts to sink in more. Tears spill down from your eyes and your heart beats unevenly as you stumble clumsily forwards because finally you’re starting to see what the truth is. Mycroft, desperate to comfort you in any way that he can, tries to keep a hold of you, but you slip out of his reach and his arm lowers steadily, though his hand still remains outstretched towards you for the longest of times. “You gave that man the go-ahead didn't you?” you ask incredulously, “It’s because of you that the hit and run happened.” 

 

An intake of breath seems to go around the room and everyone’s eyes seem to be on your mother and you as you stare at one another. Finally Mother nods. 

 

A couple of gurgles leave your mouth because you don’t want to believe this is happening. Don’t want to believe that this is the truth. You rake your hands through your hair and bend in on yourself a little, struggling to take it all in. As Mycroft lets out a gasp however you straighten up again and look back at him concernedly. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs, trying to smile reassuredly at you as his hand shifts against his chest. 

 

You eye him studiously for a moment, before realizing something else you turn back to look at your mother. “All this time,” you tell her, “All this time you’ve been getting on your high-horse and telling me to stay away from him because _he_ might have had something to do with my incident when you knew! You knew that he wasn't responsible!”-

 

“F/N, please”-

 

“How dare you! How dare you even come in here and make out that he’s the one who wants to control me when that couldn't be any further from the truth! How dare you come in here and criticize him when he’s in this state!” you finish with a flourish. 

 

“F/N, if you just listen to me. Try and see it from _my_ point of view for a minute. That man said all these things. He spoke of a man who lived above you. Talked of drugs and experiments.” Your eyes flicker to Sherlock’s briefly. “He said that you’d been running around the countryside with a gun, doing all sorts of things that God wouldn't approve of. He talked of how you’d been regularly putting yourself into dangerous situations. Most of the time he never said exactly how, but he always said just enough to make my imagination come up with all kinds of things. It was when he said that you seemed to have fallen in love with one of the most dangerous men of all that I could not hesitate”-you make a sound of discontent-“The man never told me his name, but he was cold he said. His power extended far beyond common knowledge. He was manipulative and he would trick you with his slyness. It was only when I met this man here at the hospital when you were there before that I realized it must be him. When it became clear that something had happened between the pair of you I was worried that the action had been taken too late”-

 

“You must have been thrilled when I lost my memory,” you blurt out angrily, before you just stare at her. 

 

“Not thrilled no,” your mother says, “But I did begin to look at it as if God had given you a second chance.” 

 

“A second chance?” you scoff. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ your mother begins pleadingly, “I didn't know what the action was going to be”-

 

“What did you think was going to happen? That they were going to sit me down and talk to me about the benefits of moving back to Wales over a nice cup of tea?”

 

“It sounds silly,” your mother huffs out a breath, “But yes! _Yes!_ I thought that something like that was going to happen and I wish that it had, even though you’d have probably been too stubborn to take heed of it.”

 

“No.” You shake your head. “I don’t believe that you didn't know what was going to happen. Do you know why I don’t believe you?” you ask, fixing your eyes on her grimly. She shakes her head. _“Darren.”_ Your mother lets out a breath and Mycroft and Sherlock exchange a quick glance with one another, before they look back at you. “How could Darren, someone so close to us, be involved in it if you didn't know?” Your mother lets out a whimper and raises one hand to her forehead as tears stream from her eyes. “Who’s the liar now mother?” you ask bitterly. 

 

Your father puts a hand on your mother’s shoulder. “The truth,” he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, “I think you must tell her the truth now.”

 

Your mother lowers her hand and looks at you. Something trembles inside you. Suddenly you don’t want to know. _“Don’t”-_

 

“I agreed to action,” your mother interrupts, and your body shakes as your hands clench up into fists. “I only realized my mistake when the man gave me a list of choices. All of them involved things that I did not wish. All of them suggested that harm must come to you”-

 

“So you, being a Christian woman, protested and pleaded with the man, before you finally”-

 

“I chose the lesser of evils F/N,” your mother interrupts you.

 

“Then you made a new deal. You said that you’d only do it and give the money that they no doubt wanted from you if”-

 

“I went to Darren. I did not know who else to go to. He was shocked. I felt awful”-

 

“Awful about what you’d condemned me to? Or awful because Darren thought less of you?” you can’t help but ask. 

 

More tears spill down your mother’s face. “It was for the best F/N. Darren finally agreed to carry out the hit and run. He would be gentle with you he said, only give you a little knock. He was trying to save you, save us all”-

 

“A little _knock?_ I could have _died!_ I could have died just because you didn't believe that I could be happy here! You thought I was playing with the devil when really _you_ were the one making a deal with him!” You slam your hands over your mouth and stagger a little to one side as a flash of something comes back to you. A flash of chillingly cold hands upon your waist, and a voice with an Irish accent whispering, ‘Love from the devil,’ inside your ear. You hear a couple of gasps and feel someone’s hands go to your waist. You jerk back a little, before you realize that Violet has rushed forwards to support you. “Thank you,” you murmur to her as she looks up at you with worried eyes. She nods. Your eyes harden as they go back to your mother. “You say you’re a Christian, but you’re the worst of them all. I don’t know how you could ever do such a thing. Do that to your own daughter.” You pull away from Violet and begin to move forwards. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ your mother utters as you make to move past her. 

 

“I haven’t got anything else to say,” you tell her, before as a sob rises inside you; you increase your pace, push past everyone and rush out. 

 

You hear a stream of voices calling your name as you do so, Mycroft’s rising above them all, but you just ignore each one and stagger across to the far wall of the corridor instead. You lean against it for one moment with one hand splayed upon it to support you. Then, desperate for air, you make your way out of the hospital as quickly as you can. You stumble around the back and lean against the wall, breathing hard. Your ears detect the various sounds that come from the ambulance station and the humdrum of London all around, whilst your eyes stare hazily at the bits of blue sky that poke through the cloud. Your mouth pants for air as you take in the fact that the weather does not reflect the confusion that you feel. 

 

 _“F/N?”_

 

You start a little and turn your head to see that John’s there, holding two polystyrene cups. He hands you one and you take it from him gratefully. 

 

For a long moment neither of you say anything. You just stand next to one another sipping at your tea. 

 

Finally John looks at you and says, “I'm really sorry. They came around to 221B out of the blue this morning. Mrs. Hudson was all in a panic because she didn't even know you were back in town, and Sherlock wasn't there, so she called me. When Mary and I went around there we tried to persuade them just to come back to ours for a bit, but your mother wasn't having any of it. As soon as she learnt where you more than likely were she was adamant that she had to go to you.”

 

You nod. “It’s not your fault,” you breathe, looking off into the distance, before you look back at him and ask, “How could they have done that? My own parents? I could have died because of their stupidity, and I could have lost Mycroft”- you break off into a hiccup. 

 

“I don’t know,” John says, looking at you steadily. It’s not perhaps the elaborate answer explaining all that you’d hoped for, but it _is_ honest, and something about it makes you let out a little snort and smile. _“What?”_ John asks. 

 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. You rake your free hand through your hair. “I guess it’s just a relief to me that you’re on the same wavelength as me. Everyone else always seems to know more, but at long last I seem to have caught up with everyone.” You pause. “Unless you’ve got any more secrets?” you ask John dryly. 

 

John shakes his head and you smile a little, feeling encouraged in spite of all the pain that’s inside you. “Still, despite everything though,” he looks at you, “I do know that as ridiculous as it sounds your mother was probably just trying to protect you F/N.” 

 

You look at him. “You’d think she could have found some other way of doing it without making a deal like that,” you conclude, looking off into the distance bitterly. 

 

“Yeah,” John breathes, “Yeah she could have.” You look at each other again. “But, saying that, I know it sounds silly but if I could protect Sherlock, Mary, you or anyone else, even if it was by doing something that would make them hate me, then I would. As we both know from what happened with the fall Mycroft and Sherlock would probably do the same.” 

 

You let out a fluttery breath. Suddenly something occurs to you. “Do you think they knew?” you ask John. “Do you think they suspected that my parents had something to do with all this?” 

 

“I don’t know,” John answers you honestly. “That’s something you’ll have to take up with them.” He lets out a little breath and you feel uncomfortable about the idea that this might be another thing that Mycroft’s been hiding from you. A thing where he’d just let your parents rail against him for the sake of the greater good. “Mycroft’s been taken away to do some tests,” John tells you, pulling you out of your thought and you feel suddenly worried. “Just normal procedure,” John reassures you, “But I think that he’d probably quite like it if you were to go back in there this afternoon and talk to him about all of this. Instead of torturing yourself about it on your own. For the record I think that would be the best thing to do too.”

 

“Did he tell you that?” you ask him knowingly, your insides softening a little in spite of yourself.

 

“No,” John replies with a small smile, “But you didn't have to be a Holmes to work it out with the way that he was looking after you when you left.” His smile grows a little, before his face becomes more serious. “Listen,” he tells you, “I can’t tell you what to do about your parents, _or_ how to react to all this. But just trust your instincts, all right?” You share a nod with one another, before he begins to walk away from you. He stops when he’s only taken a couple of steps away, before he turns back to you. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot”- You look at him and watch in puzzlement as he takes out something from his pocket, before he hands it to you. It’s a key. “To Mycroft’s house,” John says, whilst you stare down at the way that its old-fashioned design sits coolly in your palm. “Sherlock wanted me to give it to you. He said that it rightfully belonged to you.” 

 

“Thank you,” you smile, letting your fingers close over it. John nods, before he makes to properly walk away from you. As you watch him go you realize that it feels good to know that you’ve got friends who will be there for you, no matter what your mother might say about them all. She was wrong about them before you know; just like she was wrong about Mycroft, you can feel that now. It glows inside you with certainty. But what on earth are you supposed to do about this latest development in your life? You sigh and move away from the wall, fiddling with the key. 

 

In the end you _do_ go back to Mycroft’s house for a little while. Forensics have been and gone and you’re now free to move about inside the entirety of the house. You walk around and open some of the windows, so that you can get some air in. You go to Mycroft’s room last of all and pause for a moment by the entranceway. Even standing there now you can remember exactly the way that Mycroft had been there on the floor just last night. Your eyes rise to the bed. Its been stripped of the covers, but you can still see the body there. You frown. Perhaps you’ll have a look around and see where Mycroft keeps his sheets and things later on, or even ask him. You want to make it nice and cast out all the bad memories. 

 

You move back downstairs and pad into the kitchen, before you slip out into the garden. You just stop and take it all in for a moment. There’s a small patio space with various potted plants dotted around. A path stretches from it down to the bottom of the garden. Two circular tables with chairs are there, but eager to stay relatively close to the house you sit by the circular table that’s on the patio area instead. You cross your legs and tilt your head back. For one moment, despite the fact that it’s probably best that you’re on your own right now, you feel a pang of loneliness and wish that you weren’t sitting there by yourself. No one comes to sit beside you. But a little later Greg arrives. He’s come to take the swab from you, so that your DNA can be ruled out of anything forensics comes up with. He’s kind and gentle with you as ever, but though you’d felt almost desperately like you wanted to talk with someone before then, for some reason, now that you have that chance you find that you can barely say anything. It’s like you’ve gone back to that time when you were first living in Wales again after your incident and when company both appealed and did not. You let out a sigh and Greg leaves not long after. 

 

*

 

You return to the hospital a little reluctantly-but knowing that it is probably where you need to be-that afternoon. It feels odd entering by yourself and you walk quickly to Mycroft’s room. You only hesitate when you come to be right outside of it. You stand on your tiptoes and peer through the circular window that’s on the door. Mycroft’s alone. You feel both reassured and a sense of apprehension by the fact. You take a deep breath and slowly push the door open. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes go to you and scan you intently. 

 

“Hi,” you tell him, “Is it okay if I come in?”

 

Mycroft bows his head. 

 

Feeling more confident you let the door fall shut behind you and make your way across to him. You sit down by his bedside, so that you’ve got your back facing the door. “I'm sorry about my parents. How are you feeling?”

 

Mycroft’s lip quirks upward, before his face falls into an expression of thoughtful contemplation. “As politically correct as you’re being by asking me that question, I can’t help but think that it is _me_ who should be asking you that my dear.”

 

You let out a little breath, before you look down to your lap. You look up again. “How could they do that? How could they order a hit and run against their own daughter?” You ball your hands into fists and take a deep breath. “The more I think about it the more angry I get,” you confess, “Especially when I think about how they've been perfectly happy to villainize you this whole time and let _you_ suffer.” 

 

“I am used to people not liking me,” Mycroft huffs out a breath, and you stare at him. For a moment he glances at a spot that’s over your shoulder, before he looks at you again and squeezes your hand. “I appreciate that you’re angry and of course you have every right to be, but you would do well I think to look beyond that now and remember that Moriarty is ultimately the person who did all this,” he says. 

 

“I”-

 

“It _was_ Moriarty,” Mycroft interrupts, placing one of his large hands over yours to stop you from speaking, “Was it not? Who got one of his subordinates to go around to your parents’ cottage”-your eyes flash as you feel a sudden burst of rage. Mycroft studies you carefully-“Who ultimately poisoned their minds and made them believe the worst about your life in London. Moriarty who played on one of the most natural fears a mother has and used it to his own advantage. He used your parents, and they will not be the first or last to be duped by him.”

 

Your hand curls into a fist beneath his. Mycroft uses his fingers to carefully smooth it out once more. You huff out a breath. “That may be but my mother still”-

 

“She is not to blame F/N,” Mycroft interrupts you. 

 

“How can you be so calm about it?” you exclaim. “How can you just sit there and take in everything as if there’s nothing bad about it? Sit there when my parents would have seen you quite happily condemned. They would have let you _die”-_ you break off and look away. Mycroft’s hand moves towards your hair, but you swat it away, before you swing around, get up off your seat and stand. You pace around for a moment, your body shaking. Finally you still with your eyes partly shut and one of your hands raised to your temple. “Did you know?” you ask. “Is that it? Is that why you’re able to take this in so unemotionally because you already suspected that my parents might have something to do with all this?” You look back at him and lower your hand. When you see that he’s hesitating you add in a broken voice, “I want the truth Mycroft.”

 

“No,” Mycroft says clearly, “I am afraid that my cool head comes merely from years of experience of hearing things of difficulty and doing my best not to respond to them.” You look at him in amazement. “That’s the way you have to attempt to be in my job. You also have to try and make connections with things and I'm afraid that I failed there. As far as I was concerned Moriarty had something on Darren and was merely using it for his own gain. I knew that Moriarty would find the fact that someone from where you originate from was responsible for your incident amusing. I did not think beyond that because I did not think it of consequence. If I’d spent more time with your parents then perhaps I would have come to suspect such a thing.”

 

You eye him for a moment, before you nod. You make to sink back into the chair. “Sorry,” you huff out, looking at him only briefly, before you look down again. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath. “It is quite all right.” You look at him. “It was a logical question. I can’t exactly fault you for it, _although”-_ he breaks off, but you know what he means. 

 

“I'm sorry,” you tell him, “I _do_ trust you, and I believe in you a lot more than my parents ever have. It’s just”- you break off. 

 

“Difficult?” Mycroft suggests. 

 

You nod, before you let out a little breath. You look down again. 

 

For the rest of your visit you make small talk with horrific gaps of silence in between. An unresolved tension thrums between you. It’s awful and you feel worse when you leave than you had when you’d gone in. 

 

*

 

You return to Mycroft’s, picking up a microwave meal on the way. You eat it in the kitchen, sipping at a little wine that you hope Mycroft won’t mind you drinking and feeling lonely. You think that you’ve got no right to feel that way though. On your way back you’d received text messages from John, Mary, Sally and Greg, all volunteering to come around and keep you company if you needed it. You’d replied to them all thanking them, but saying that you’d prefer to be on your own right now. It is not exactly company that you crave, rather just understanding. But who can possibly understand this? Sherlock and Mycroft can’t. Their parents seem wonderful and normal, which is a surprise considering everything. You expect that had you been introduced to them in more normal circumstances you would have spent a great deal of time beforehand studying up on a lot of subjects just to try and impress them simply because you would have wrongly assumed they wouldn't be as ordinary as they are. Whilst you’re sure too that the others all have perfectly loving parents. Parents who would never dream of deliberately endangering their own child’s life for their own selfish gains. Your mind goes back to what both John and Mycroft had implied about how your parents had only done such a thing because they wanted to protect you. You shake your head, abandoning the final half of your meal. No matter what the reason is you still feel too angry to even consider forgiving them right now. You drink more wine, walk about the house in a daze and attempt to watch TV. Nothing holds your attention. Only the wine it seems is effective in numbing your pain. It does give you a headache though, and you find yourself taking paracetamol for that, before you finally head to bed to try and get some sleep. 

 

You find it impossible to succumb though. Your mind is too full of thought about everything. About what your parents have done, Mycroft and John’s thoughts and Mycroft’s words about how it is Moriarty who is ultimately responsible for all of this. You feel a fire of rage whenever you think of Moriarty now. You get the sense that you’re still probably naïve about what he’s capable of, but you’re a lot less so than you had been. 

 

Irritation about it all flows through you until you finally sit up, flip the duvet off you and pad downstairs. There you drink a glass of water, before you quickly decide that a glass of wine is more preferable. 

 

You find that you’ve gotten through half the bottle, along with some spirits, before you stagger upstairs again. You decide to go to Mycroft’s room rather than the usual spare one you’ve been sleeping in, but a little groan escapes your lips when you see that the bed’s still not done up. You pad around until you find what you need, letting out a couple of curses and a few very unladylike belches as you go. You attempt to drag the sheet over the bed without much success, before you fall face down on it and begin to snore. 

 

*

 

“F/N? F/N?” an irritating voice makes its way through to you. 

 

You let out an incomprehensible groan and swat a hand in the direction of the source of annoyance. You keep your eyes resolutely shut. 

 

Someone puts their hand on your shoulder and gives you a little shake, which seems to rattle every bone inside your body. 

 

Feeling suddenly sick you jerk away from them. _“What?”_ you growl out as you finally open your eyes and sit up blearily, “What does a woman have to do around here to get some sleep?” You quickly realize that you appear to be directing your words to the mattress that’s on the bed. You look about, groaning a little as you swing around and put a hand against your pounding head. You start a little when you come to see that Sherlock’s standing in front of you. You don’t know how long he’s been there, but the expression that he’s wearing is oddly disapproving and you wish that he’d change it because it just reminds you of Mycroft. Sherlock’s holding a glass of water. 

 

“Just for the record,” he says, “My brother would find the sight that you’re currently presenting even more appalling than the one of you drooling on his expensive pillows.” He holds the drink out to you. You sip at it, groaning a little when you start to become even more aware of just how rough you feel. “Once you’ve drunk that you’re going to get dressed and then I'm going to take you to see my brother.”

 

You nearly spill some of the water at that. _“No,”_ you blurt out, shaking your head, “I don’t want to see him. I'm just going to stay here today.” Sherlock looks at you. “He can’t see me like this,” you tell him pleadingly.

 

Sherlock takes in the sight of your bedraggled hair, your red-rimmed eyes, the smell of alcohol that seems to linger all around you, the foulness of your breath, the sloppy way that you’re wearing your pyjamas with part of your cleavage and legs on display and finally seems to agree. You let out a breath of relief when he nods. “But if you’re going to stay here then you can make use of my brother’s shower facilities,” Sherlock tells you. You give him a jerky nod, feeling embarrassed. _“And,”_ Sherlock goes on, “You’re not to be on your own. I’ll work out a rota to ensure such a thing, whilst you get yourself sorted.”

 

“I don’t need to be babysat, I'm fine,” you growl at him, finishing off your water with relish, before you thrust your glass at him. Your head gives an almighty pang as you do so and for a moment you think that you might retch, but thankfully you manage to avoid it. 

 

“I'm sure my brother would disagree,” Sherlock sniffs, clutching at the glass delicately. 

 

“What Mycroft doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” you snipe, looking moodily off to the side. 

 

“So what are your intentions? Because drinking yourself into an early grave seems to be a pretty poor way to repay my brother for the way that he’s tried to protect you all this time”-

 

“I don’t need anyone protecting me!” you yell at him, shifting so that you’re sitting on your knees and glaring at him out of dark eyes. “I don’t need you, or Mycroft, or my _stupid_ parents thinking that they know what’s best for me!” 

 

“So you’d rather be dead?”- 

 

“Maybe I would!” you shout beside yourself, before you jump off the bed, let out a large belch as you do so and stand in front of Sherlock threateningly. 

 

“You’re drunk,” he says, shaking his head at you in disgust. 

 

You let out yet another belch, snatch the glass out of his hand and throw it aside. It smashes when it hits the carpet, splintering into a million fragments. As if he’d predicted such a thing Sherlock barely blinks. “Maybe I am consulting detective,” you grumble, before you push roughly past him and stagger clumsily towards the shower. 

 

Once you’ve begun to wash yourself and you’re more conscious of everything however you start to sob. As you do so you sink closer to the floor until you’re just crouched there, your hands raking through your hair as you cry and cry. You don’t even know properly what you’re crying about any more. It’s just everything. Just the fact that you’ve been learning more and more about things ever since your incident and you just can’t cope with it all any more. Can’t cope with feeling battered just because someone had ultimately tried to protect you. Can’t cope with the fact that Mycroft had nearly died the other night. Can’t cope with the fact that you’ve now just made things worse for yourself by getting drunk and showing Sherlock just how miserable and pathetic you are. Thank God Mycroft had missed the show, but you still feel terribly sorry for yourself nonetheless. 

 

You don’t know how long you spend just sobbing there, but it’s definitely longer than an hour. You finally leave the shower with an embarrassed clearing of your throat, before you shiver a little as you dry yourself and finally get dressed. As you pass by Mycroft’s bedroom you see that the bed has now been made and the glass cleared up off the floor. You go downstairs, feeling awkward about the amount of time that you’ve spent in the shower, to find that Sherlock’s sitting in the living room, apparently reading. A chart, apparently containing a row of times, people and when they will be keeping you company lies on the side table. Sherlock’s eyes flicker up to you and you share a rather terse nod, before they dart down again. You sit down beside him on the settee with an awkward clearing of your throat. 

 

“If you’re hungry then you should go to the kitchen,” Sherlock tells you, and you notice that there’s a bit of an edge to his tone. 

 

“I'm sorry,” you blurt out, looking at him, “I do appreciate what Mycroft and you have done for me, of course I do”-

 

“And your parents?” Sherlock asks, meeting your gaze with raised eyebrows. You swallow as you look up at him. Your hands fidget on your lap. “I ask, not because it matters to me one way or another whether you’ll talk to them again, but to get you ready for both my brother, and no doubt John, pushing you to do such a thing.” You shrug non-commitedly and look away. “Well, whilst you’re still deciding,” Sherlock tells you, “I’ve arranged for Lestrade and a couple of the other police officers to come around this afternoon and remove all the alcohol from the house.” You open your mouth, outrage filling you. “I’ve also,” Sherlock goes on, raising his hands in supplication, whilst his book falls shut on his lap, “Taken it upon myself to remove the paracetamol from your bag, so if you’re not feeling well then you’ll simply have to tell me and I’ll give you one.”

 

“I don’t need to be mollycoddled,” you say in an injured tone, before you swing up off the settee. 

 

“Perhaps you do,” Sherlock says. You look back at him angrily. “Did anyone mollycoddle you last night?” Sherlock asks, before he answers his own question when he goes on to say, “No. We all left you alone just like you wanted, and, if you don’t mind me saying”-

 

“I do,” you interrupt, but Sherlock just ignores you. 

 

“Then you did such an excellent job of proving to everyone that you can be trusted to be left on your own devices that it makes me think that perhaps being mollycoddled is _exactly_ what you need.”

 

You huff out a breath, before you march as quickly as you can towards the kitchen. 

 

*

 

You spend a great portion of the day feeling moody. You sit on the settee with folded arms, feeling angry as you hear the chinking sounds as all the alcohol is steadily removed from the house. You’re abrupt when Greg and Sally come to talk to you, and you’re no different when John and Mary do the same later on that day. 

 

When the phone rings early that evening when finally it is just Sherlock and you again, you consequently regard it with suspicion.

 

“You better go and pick it up,” Sherlock says, “That of course being if you can walk in a straight line now.”

 

You glare at him, before you heave yourself off the settee and stalk across to the small wooden table where the land line is kept. 

 

You pick it up with an abrupt, “Hello?”

 

“F/N.” You’re surprised to hear that it’s Mycroft, and you feel awkward when you take in the way that he says your name so curtly. 

 

“Oh, hello,” you murmur, gazing down and drawing a circle into the wood. There’s some dust there. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat. “My parents visited again earlier. Mummy was rather disappointed not to see you again, as was I.” Your heart hitches in your chest and you don’t speak for the longest of times. “F/N you do know that it’s Moriarty’s fault don’t you? All of this? Everything that your parents did?” Again you don’t reply. “I'm sure that your parents are clever people, but as clever as they are my dear you have to understand that they really can’t be blamed for”-

 

“My parents are idiots and I'm sorry, but I’ve got to go,” you cut him off abruptly, not wanting to hear him talk about it all any more. As logical as his words may be you find that it’s hard to accept your parents are completely blameless in all of this. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ Mycroft replies, sounding a little surprised. “Yes, of course,” he says, collecting himself. You feel a twinge of guilt. “Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow then?” he checks.

 

You hesitate. “Perhaps.”

 

There comes a pause. “Goodnight then F/N,” Mycroft says. 

 

“Goodnight,” you murmur, feeling relieved to be coming to the end of this phone call. You put the phone down.

 

*

 

You have a quieter night than the one before. Sherlock watches you all the time, and it’s not long before you go off to bed. You find yourself drifting into Mycroft’s room again. There might have been a body on the bed in there only two nights ago, but it feels more comforting somehow. Probably because it’s where Mycroft usually sleeps. You don’t know which side he normally sleeps on though, but you take the side that’s furthest from the window. In spite of that you spend most of the night on your side, staring out at the faint light that filters through the curtains. An owl hoots in the distance and it makes you shiver. You wish that Mycroft was close by to reassure you. You try to picture him next to you, staring at you, perhaps stroking at your hair again, but you just end up feeling sad and like you’d been terribly mean to him earlier. You shift your position uncomfortably. What if something happens to him now and it’s all your fault? What if he has another heart attack and dies? You feel suddenly panicked and teary. You’ll definitely go to the hospital tomorrow, you think. You’ll be upbeat and positive and you’ll make up for your attitude to him this evening and for not seeing him today. Yes, that’s what you’ll do. You drift off.

 

*

 

You can’t know it, but although Mycroft’s physical condition doesn’t take a turn for the worse that night he does spend a large portion of it wide awake worrying about you and listening to all the strange sounds of the hospital-the pitter, patter of feet going past his room and the hum of machinery. 

 

*

 

You do go to the hospital that next day, but you don’t go there until the afternoon. Mycroft’s parents and Sherlock had been there that morning, but thankfully he’s alone now. He’s sitting up when you enter and he looks pleased to see you. 

 

“Ah F/N,” he murmurs. 

 

“Hi,” you say, forcing a cheery smile at him. You bustle across. “I'm sorry that I didn't visit you yesterday, but I had a lot of things that I needed to do.” You hug him briefly, before you pull back and sit down with a bit of a thump. Your handbag slips to the floor. 

 

Mycroft eyes you. “Perhaps for the benefit of my heart at least if nothing else you could be honest with me? I can tell that you’re lying to me. In fact I know that you are because Sherlock said this morning that you were in quite a state yesterday, and, considering what you’d found out I’d be surprised if you hadn’t been feeling a little emotional about everything.”

 

“Perhaps for the benefit of your heart Sherlock should have kept his mouth shut,” you retort. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath, before he smiles a little knowingly. “My brother has long learnt that it’s no use lying to me,” he says, keeping his eyes on you steadily even as his hand shifts against the bed cover. “You’d do well to do the same,” he adds. 

 

A sudden flare of anger runs through you. _“Why?_ So you can control me?” 

 

Mycroft stiffens. “I am merely trying to”-

 

“I don’t _want_ your help! I don’t want anyone’s! Why can’t people understand that?” you blurt out, getting to your feet. You huff out a breath, rake a hand restlessly through your hair and sit down with a thump. 

 

“I'm concerned about you,” Mycroft confesses a moment later, placing his hand delicately upon yours. 

 

You hesitate a moment and consider drawing away, before you relent and slump a little. “Considering where we are I'm the one who should probably be saying that to you,” you acknowledge. 

 

Mycroft lets out a puff of breath. You glance up at him. He taps at your hand. “All in all I have to admit that I'm rather looking forward to leaving this hospital tomorrow so that I can look after you.”

 

“You’re leaving _tomorrow?”_ you eye him in astonishment. “But you had a heart attack”-

 

“I’ve already made some positive steps in my recovery,” Mycroft says, gripping your hand more firmly. “The doctors say that if I get through twenty-eight days without having another then there’s no reason why I shouldn't go on to live a long and healthy life.”

 

You consider all that. “But _work?”_ you ask. “What are you going to do about that?”

 

Mycroft suddenly avoids your eyes. _“Well,”_ he shifts his position. You eye him suspiciously. “The doctors have recommended that I should take two weeks off at least, but, being in the position that I am”- he breaks off awkwardly and waves his hands. You narrow your eyes. “Well, two weeks would be a gross inconvenience for everyone”-

 

“It would be worse for them if you were dead!” you snap incredulously. “You’re on about twenty-eight days, but you’re not even going to last that long if you don’t take care of yourself. You need a healthy diet, the correct medicine and some proper time off,” you declare, staring at him in a maddening fashion. 

 

Mycroft raises his hands and bows his head in acknowledgement, before his eyes meet yours. “I’ve agreed to work at home for the first week, before going back to work at the beginning of the second. That will be an inconvenience enough I think.”  
You frown at him and fold your arms. “F/N I assure you that if you’re staying with me then you’ll have had quite enough of me after one week,” Mycroft says conversationally. 

 

Your lip twitches upward in spite of yourself. “I find that hard to believe,” you breathe, pulling his hand back into yours. 

 

Mycroft looks pleased. 

 

*

 

You spend another night under supervision-Sally’s this time. She roams about Mycroft’s house and rolls her eyes whenever you look at her, but you can tell that although she’s been there before, now that she has more of a chance to properly take it all in without any chaos occurring she’s grudgingly impressed by how grand it all is. 

 

“I’ll be calling you Lady L/N next,” she says, doing a little curtsy in your direction, which makes you smile. “Especially if you end up living here.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you breathe, suddenly feeling a little awkward and you look down. “It’s early days,” you add when she looks at you. 

 

The pair of you make your way into the living room and sit down next to each other on the settee. 

 

“Still, I can tell that you’re tentatively happy about it, and I know how happy the old you would be about it too, so”- she breaks off deliberately with a shrug. You know that despite how hard it must be for her to put aside every last one of her old grievances against Mycroft she’s trying to be upbeat and accept the relationship the best she can for your sake. You smile a bit and push a strand of hair back from your face, before your expression becomes a serious one. Sally’s face grows more thoughtful too. “How are you feeling about everything else?” she asks, slipping forward and taking your hand in hers. 

 

You just look at your joined hands for the longest of times, before you finally shrug, “I don’t know,” because that’s how you feel. Sally swallows. Your face crumples. “I-I just feel so-so _angry,”_ you say, trying to explain. But before you can sloppy tears burst from your eyes. 

 

Sally pulls you to her. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she soothes, stroking your hair. You cry against her shoulder. 

 

You shake your head against her. “How could they do that? _How?”_ you pull back from her and look at her desperately. 

 

“I don’t know,” Sally says, pushing your sticky hair back from your forehead and getting a handkerchief out of her pocket. She uses it to dab just beneath your eyes. 

 

“J-John and Mycroft said that it might be because they wanted to protect me, but”- you break off uncertainly, looking down again. 

 

“You don’t know?” Sally asks. You shrug. She swallows and thinks for one long moment. “I think whilst you should certainly consider the option that they might have done it to protect you, you should also take in the fact that none of us, Mycroft and John included, know what it’s like to be a parent.” She pauses and you look at her. “Perhaps in the end the people you really need to talk to about all this are your parents themselves?”

 

You draw back from her, shaking your head. “I-I'm not ready.”

 

Sally does not push you to talk about it any more. Instead she just sits next to you quietly, whilst you think about it. 

 

You’re still thinking about it even when you go to bed, once more sleeping in Mycroft’s room. 

 

You spend some time the next morning though caught up in other matters. You head out first thing and buy some flowers, which you dot about in vases throughout the house. You want it to feel fresh and welcoming for Mycroft’s return. You also spend some time cleaning. 

 

Then you go to hospital, arriving just in time to see Mycroft’s parents and Sherlock leading Mycroft out of it. Mycroft’s carrying a bag of his things and you suspect that he’s already told his parents not to carry it for him. 

 

You note Sherlock’s look of satisfaction upon seeing you and his parents look of relieved delight, but it is Mycroft’s soft look of surprise that you fix your attention on. 

 

“F/N,” he murmurs, “I did not expect to see you again quite so soon.”

 

You open your mouth, but Violet gets there first. “Perhaps F/N is just as keen as all of us to get you home,” she suggests. Mycroft’s eyes widen and you blush a little. 

 

“It’s good to see you,” you breathe, and as you see how Mycroft’s eyes sparkle a little you can tell that the feeling’s mutual. 

 

You turn around and begin to lead the way back to the house. The others follow you diligently. 

 

Once you all emerge from the pair of taxi’s that have ferried you back to Mycroft’s house Mycroft predictably frowns at the ruined driveway, but goes across it without a word. When Mycroft and you are making to go inside the house however, Violet calls, “We won’t be coming inside.” Mycroft and you both turn to her. You notice that Sherlock looks awkward as he stands next to his parents. Yet you’re the one left feeling that way when Violet adds emphatically, “We’ll leave you two alone.” Sherlock pulls a face. 

 

“There’s really no need to be pulling such an expression brother mine,” Mycroft tells him, before he goes on, “Not that it’s any of your business but the doctors think it unwise for me to have sex until four to six weeks have passed, so there’s really no need to concern yourself over what F/N and I will be doing.” Sherlock looks like he might be about to be physically sick. 

 

Your eyes widen a little at Mycroft’s words and you feel suddenly nervous. The possibility of sex has rather been the last thing on your mind. 

 

“Mycroft, you’re scaring the poor girl,” Violet says with a bit of a reproving chuckle when she catches your expression, before she makes to grasp at your arm. 

 

You force a smile at her, pretending in actual fact that everything’s all right when really you just feel all odd inside. 

 

Mycroft looks at you in concern, before his gaze goes to his father who says, “Come on Vi, I think it’s time that we were off.”

 

“What’s that?” Violet says, looking at him. He nods and she looks back to the pair of you. “Oh yes. Goodbye then Mykie, we’ll see you soon,” she says, hugging him. 

 

“Mummy please don’t call me that,” Mycroft says with half-a-glance at you as she pulls back from him. He looks so embarrassed that it makes you smile. 

 

She lets out a bit of a watery laugh and pats him fondly on the cheek. “You’ll have to tell me at least one more time dear,” she tells him. She draws back and looks at you, whilst Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It was so lovely to see you again dear. I only wish that we could have spent even more time together. We’ll have to all go out for a meal sometime.” Sherlock lets out a groan. 

 

You wisely choose to ignore him. “Yes,” you say, your hands flapping, “I’d like that.”

 

Violet smiles at you, before she eyes you seriously as she says, “Look after him then won’t you?”

 

You smile at her warmly. “You can count on me Mrs. Holmes,” you tell her.

 

As she looks at you her chest seems to swell with pride. “I am _so_ glad that you met one another.”

 

“Me too Mrs. Holmes,” you say, feeling suddenly emotional and linking your arm with Mycroft’s who looks down at you in surprise. It only takes a moment though for his face to soften. 

 

After one last smile at you both Mycroft’s parents trundle off back down the driveway with Sherlock trailing after them. 

 

Mycroft starts to pull his arm away from yours, but before he can you swivel around, push him up gently against the door frame and ask, “You do know that I'm glad don’t you? To have met you I mean?” Mycroft studies you for a moment and his lips part. “I didn't mean what I said before. I'm so glad that we met one another. I'm glad that you’ve stood by me each time I’ve been, admittedly horrible to you, and I-I love you. You know that right?”

 

Mycroft swallows. He feels unusually choked with emotion. He’s wanted to hear such things from you for so long. He notices that as you stare at him tears fill up your eyes and he brushes a strand of hair back from your face. You look at him imploringly. He acts on instinct. He lets his bag fall to the floor, leans in close, uses one hand to cup at your cheek and kisses you. You let out a breath against him at the same time that your eyes flutter shut. Mycroft presses his lips insistently against yours for one long moment, before you let out a soft squeak against him and pull back. 

 

“Y-Your heart,” your breathe, your fingers trailing absent-mindedly over his chest as you peer up at him. 

 

Mycroft feels an odd sense of pleasure when he sees how flushed your face is, and how your eyes are now burning with something other than tears. “I don’t believe the doctors said anything about not kissing,” he says with a smug smile. Your blush grows and you feel suddenly more nervous. Mycroft’s eyes darken. _“Come,”_ he murmurs, a rather delicious smile playing about his face as he picks up his bag once more, “Let’s go inside.”

 

You turn simultaneously, and you only find that you blush even more when your bodies brush against each other’s. You draw back a little and allow him to lead you down the hallway. “Do-Do you want me to take your things upstairs, o-or perhaps you’d like to take them up yourself?” Mycroft looks at you over his shoulder with a bit of an enquiring look about his face. “I-I didn't mean,” you blush, before you bat him on the shoulder and scold, “You know what I meant,” when his expression changes into that of a smile. 

 

“I do,” Mycroft chuckles, before he moves into the kitchen and places his bag down by the kitchen table. “I think for now though it can stay down here. I must admit to being a little tired from all the activity, and since I have no desire for you to leave me even for a moment…” he trails off, glances at you and you smile. You watch as he looks around and his face falls upon the yellow daffodils that you’ve placed in a circular dark blue vase on the middle of the kitchen table. You can’t know that he feels oddly touched as he looks at them. “Well, you’ve certainly brightened this place up,” he says. 

 

“They’re not exactly in season,” you say, gesturing at them a little awkwardly with your hands, “But I managed to find them. They've had something done to them, so that they’d bloom a little earlier. That’s what the man at the shop said anyway, but I wasn't really paying much attention.” You shift your position and continue looking up at him imploringly. “I-I know it’s a little awkward, having flowers that are associated with Wales after everything, but I wanted to-I wanted to make the place a little nicer for your return and they-well, as soon as I saw them I was just so glad and, well really they just seemed to fall into my hands.”

 

“They’re beautiful F/N,” Mycroft says, and there’s an odd quality to his tone that you’ve never heard before. 

 

“A-Are you sure?” you ask. He looks over his shoulder at you with a bit of a frown. “Y-You don’t have to keep them if you don’t like them.” You swallow. “I-I’ve kind of put some other flowers about the house too. I didn't want to go overboard or anything. I thought you might not like them or want me to change anything, but”- you break off suddenly when Mycroft turns and moves towards you. 

 

“I can see that I'm going to have to tell you to stop worrying,” he says, ghosting his hands across your hair, before he comes to cup tenderly at your cheeks. 

 

You bite at your lip and blush again, ignoring the steady gaze of his blue eyes, before he kisses you. You groan a little into his mouth at this deeper kiss and you feel this great swooping of pleasure in your heart like a bird of prey has just re-claimed its nest. Mycroft turns you and pushes you gently until you can feel your back scraping against one of the wooden chairs, which squeaks in displeasure as you come into contact with it. You can feel your legs trembling all the time. You let out a little gasp as your lips break apart. Your hands tighten on Mycroft’s arms.

 

“I-I think I should make us a cup of tea now,” you fumble out, feeling scared by how much your body wants his already. 

 

“Okay,” Mycroft chuckles. 

 

You smile a little falteringly at him, before you push gently past him and head to the kettle. You tidy your hair up as you go. 

 

Mycroft pulls a chair back. It scrapes against the floor. He sits down on it for a moment and watches you in both a curious and predatory fashion. But then, as he’s about to look away he catches sight of something and gets up with a frown. 

 

“It’s okay. I’ve got it,” you say, thinking that he’s coming across to help you, but then you see where he’s looking and you freeze behind the counter, your pulse jumping. 

 

Mycroft stops opposite you. His hands go to clutch at the edge of the counter as his eyes dart away from where he usually keeps the wine and go to you. You swallow. He studies you, before he asks delicately, “Forgive me, but did you throw a party, whilst I was away?”

 

Your eyes spiral down to the counter and you bite at your lip, before you huff out a breath and turn away. You rake a hand through your hair. This is one of many conversations that you’re not ready to have right now. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, padding cautiously around the counter towards you. 

 

You turn back to him, before he can reach you. “I guess when it comes down to it you’re not the only one who could look after themselves better,” you admit, before you elaborate, “Sherlock got Greg and some other people to come around and take it away.” Mycroft stills but doesn’t say anything. “I thought he might have already mentioned something about it to you,” you look up at him, hopeful that you might not have to talk about this in as much depth after all. 

 

“No he hasn’t,” Mycroft swallows. “But I’d appreciate it if you could.”

 

You huff out a breath and look down. “Can’t you just do that thing you do and figure things out?” you ask him frantically. 

 

“Believe me,” Mycroft says, stepping closer to you, “I’ve already done, _‘that thing I do,’_ and, whilst I think I might know, I’d much rather that you told me.”

 

You make another sound of frustration and pace around, feeling trapped. Mycroft folds his arms and watches you. Finally you stop and turn back to face him. “I-I got rather drunk the first night after you got taken into hospital,” you mumble, your face flushing hot with embarrassment as you keep your head tilted down and choose to look at his shoes instead of his face. 

 

“On my wine and spirits?” Mycroft questions evenly. 

 

You nod. “A-And I took another paracetamol when I probably shouldn't have. I was probably just tired,” you confess, your eyes darting up to him. Mycroft approaches you with a frown upon his face. “I-I can pay you back,” you tell him as his hands loosely encircle your waist. Your own become trapped between your bodies. 

 

“I don’t want you to pay me back,” Mycroft murmurs, before he kisses you briefly. “I just want you to look after yourself more. I know what you’re going through is hard F/N, but alcohol and pills are not the answer.”

 

“I know,” you get out, before you burst into tears. 

 

“Oh my dear,” Mycroft murmurs sadly, before he cups your head to his chest. He rubs at your back with his other hand. 

 

For a few moments you just sniffle and cry against him. “I'm sorry,” you say when you finally pull back, “I don’t want to cry in front of you, especially when you’re ill, I-I just can’t help it.”

 

Mycroft’s hands slip around your waist. “I’d rather that you cried if you want to,” he tells you honestly. You let out a gurgle and nod. “I’d like it though I think if you could talk to me and share with me what your thoughts are about all of this.”

 

You nod falteringly, before, and when he sees that you don’t have the words or strength to have a proper conversation about things right now, Mycroft pulls your head to his chest once more. “I-It’s just so hard,” you breathe. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft murmurs, stroking at your hair, “I know.”

 

*

 

Mycroft and you finally get around to having a cup of tea and things settle down. You move into the living room and sit on the settee together. It’s not long before you notice that Mycroft doesn’t seem that keen to go upstairs though. You’d forgotten about the bag of things that’s still waiting to go there, but when you take the cups back, remember and mention it to him again he seems dismissive of the idea. Dismissive too when you offer once more to take it up for him. You frown, sensing that something’s wrong. Mycroft refuses to elaborate however, almost becoming hostile when you push, _and,_ not wanting to argue with him, you quickly drop the matter. 

 

After a light dinner and as evening falls the TV gets switched on. Mycroft and you while away the hours by flicking through the channels and talking every now and again. You both avoid everything of importance, before you decide to head to bed. Mycroft wishes you goodnight and you leave him in the living room. It’s a little odd heading to the usual spare room instead of Mycroft’s, and you suddenly wish that you’d realized when you woke in Mycroft’s room that morning that it would be the last time you’d be doing so, at least for a while. You blush. Still, it’s not something that can be helped. You've made the assumption that you’ll be sleeping in separate rooms despite the fact that you’re a couple now, and since Mycroft hasn’t said anything on the matter you assume that it’s what he wants too. 

 

You get changed into your pyjamas and slip underneath the covers. For a long time you stare up at the ceiling, thinking about things yes, although oddly now that Mycroft’s back things seem a little calmer and more ordered than they have been in your head. Either that or you’re just getting more used to everything. But you spend a lot of the time just listening for the soft pad of footsteps, which will signal that Mycroft’s going to his room. 

 

You fall asleep, before you ever hear them. 

 

*

 

Downstairs Mycroft looks at the clock. It’s a quarter-past one. He sighs. He’s tired. His whole body craves sleep. He supposes that he can’t really avoid going upstairs any more, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to. He lets out a bit of a choked breath and raises a hand to his temple. He knows that he’s being ridiculous, but every time he closes his eyes he can see your body on the bed. He has trouble sometimes believing that it isn't actually you. Trouble believing that you’re still alive and that he hasn’t actually ruined things as much as he’d once believed. Sometimes he just finds himself staring at you and wondering if you’re actually there or if you’re just a figment of his imagination. Sometimes he expects that you won’t be there when he looks. That he’ll just find that he’s alone in this house again. He lets out a breath. He’s being silly. He needs to get up and go to bed. There’s a lot of work that he’ll have to start catching up on tomorrow. 

 

He shuffles back into the kitchen to collect his bag, before he moves carefully upstairs. He has to stop halfway up them. The tang of salt-water comes back to him. He feels momentarily like he might either retch or faint. His free hand scrabbles against the banister. He wishes that you were there beside him, encouraging him to proceed. He takes one deep breath, then another. He’s being silly. He opens his eyes that he hadn’t even realized that he’d closed and continues upstairs. He makes it to the landing, but for one moment he just hesitates outside his room. He pushes the door open and quickly flicks the light on, before the darkness can infiltrate his mind and create all sorts of images. He steps inside and instantly sways. He leans against the door frame. It is just as he feared. He can already smell the stronger stench of salt-water. He swallows and forces himself away from the door and further inside. He sees your body on the bed, just as it had been, so still and damp. His bag drops to the floor and he hunches over. For a moment he thinks that he might be sick. _‘Get yourself together,’_ he tells himself. It’s not real. He blinks and lowers his hands. It’s not real. Slowly the image of your corpse becomes replaced by a clean, fresh duvet and an airy, but intimate space. He swallows, steadying himself. As he moves to unpack his small bag of things with fumbling fingers he can’t help but feel scared by the false images of you that his mind has presented him with. Usually his mind is able to clearly distinguish between fact and fiction. Usually he does not get so physically affected by false representations of reality. The only time he’s previously done so is with Sherlock. He can only put it down to the way he feels for you and that scares him. He’s so used to knowing things and being in control, but with you he always feels as if there’s so many questions and things that he feels he doesn’t know. It almost feels as if he’s walking back through the blank space he’d found himself in after his heart attack because he’s not sure where this will lead or if he’ll be enough or if he’ll be capable of getting how he feels out to you. He’s conscious of the fact that he hasn’t said he loves you directly yet despite the fact that you’ve said it so many times to him already. If anything you’re the one who should doubt him, and yet it is _you_ who seems worried that _he’s_ the one who’s not aware of how you feel. He huffs out a breath and finishes unpacking. It’s surely not healthy for him to be so caught up in thought about all this. Yet even after he’s stripped down to his boxers, flipped back the duvet, clambered into bed and switched the light off thoughts of you both real and imagined are all that he can think of. He tosses and turns, huffing out a breath as he fails to get comfortable. He can’t sleep. His mind is too fractured. He feels awake and more restless than he’d done at night in the hospital. He’d thought that having you so close by might help, but it appears that you’re still not close enough. He sits up in bed. His heart beats unevenly. He has the strangest desire to pad into the spare room and see you. He shifts uncomfortably and hesitates as the idea sinks in. He can’t. He’d look so silly just wandering into your room when what he really wants to do is slowly scoop you up in his arms and take you carefully back to his room so that you can sleep together in the most innocent of ways. He can’t. If you awoke you’d probably be so panicked. You might even think that he was on the verge of assaulting you despite his earlier words to Sherlock about the fact that he can’t have sex right now. He doesn’t want to spoil things or make you think that he wants to rush them. He wants you to trust him. He lets out a breath, and as he comes back out of his thought he suddenly realizes that he’s somehow got out of bed and is now standing just inside the entranceway of your room, his body turned towards the bed. He scrapes a self-conscious hand across his chest as he stares at you consideringly. A triangle of light from the hallway creeps towards you, illuminating the shape of you underneath the duvet and part of your face, which is turned towards him. Your eyes are softly shut. He can see that your mouth is partly open behind the hand that you’ve got close to your face. He swallows. He can’t disturb you, not when you look so peaceful. He wonders what is going on with him at the same time that the realization of how silly this idea was comes to him. If people at work could see him now then they’d laugh. He swallows again and makes to back out of the room. Before he can complete the process however your eyes suddenly blink open and you let out a bit of a moan. Mycroft steps forwards again and his eyes go to you. One of his hands is curled around the door, the other by his side.

 

“M-Mycroft?” you murmur, blinking more awake, before you sit up a little and pull the duvet more securely over you as you do so. 

 

Mycroft chews on his lip and folds one arm across his chest self-consciously. He looks down. He wants to tell you that he’s sorry for disturbing you and that you should go back to sleep, but more than that right now he wants to tell you that he needs you. In fact he’s never needed anyone so much. The words can’t seem to come out. 

 

You stare at him for a moment, your eyes darting to his chest. But as they go back to his face they seem to realize that something’s wrong. “Mycroft what is it?” you ask, swinging out of bed. “Has something happened?” You pad across to him. 

 

Mycroft does not reply. He’s aware of how much his heart is pounding inside of his chest. Aware of the need to say something, aware that he should perhaps be telling you to go back to bed because if you don’t then you might get a chill and he couldn't bear it if you got ill now because of him. But still, it’s as if the words can’t quite manage to crawl their way up his dry throat. Instead, with his hands down by his sides, he tucks his chin down onto his chest and looks at the floor owlishly. 

 

When you reach him your hand goes to his for a moment. It then brushes against his chest, your fingers moving close to his heart, before it jerks suddenly away again as you become more aware of what you’re doing. You peer up at him. Mycroft swallows and avoids your eyes. Finally you seem to understand. “You know,” you murmur, “Despite what it looked like I wasn't really sleeping all that well in here. I tend to sleep better in your room. Perhaps I could”- you break off deliberately. 

 

Mycroft nods. “Of course,” he says, finally finding that he can speak again as he feels both a great sense of relief that you’d understood and made out like you were the one with the problem. 

 

You smile up at him, take his hand in yours and lead him back gently to his bedroom. 

 

You’re both under the covers a moment later and Mycroft marvels at how simple getting you here had been when it had come down to it. 

 

“What?” you ask softly from where you’re lying on your side in front of him. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes glance at you, before they dart away again. He shifts his position. He knows that this is it. That he has to give you something more than he’s previously done. If he doesn’t then he’ll risk making you feel isolated and angry. He swallows and looks at you when you shift a little closer to him. “I”- he begins, before he has to break off and swallow.

 

“You don’t have to tell me, not if you don’t want to,” you reassure him, curling a hand around his arm briefly, before you draw it away. 

 

“No, I”- he swallows again, before he shifts his position, feeling frustrated. He steels himself and looks at you. “I-the sight of what I thought was your body on this bed, you-you have to understand what it did to me F/N, how it made me _feel”-_ he breaks off and you stroke carefully at his chest, your fingers pushing the hairs apart from one another. Mycroft places a delicate hand upon your arm to get you to look back at him. “I”-

 

“Shh,” you murmur, moving in to kiss him, but-

 

“Wait,” Mycroft murmurs, “You have to know that even though I haven’t told you I…” he trails off, still unable to get those three little words out. 

 

It doesn’t matter. “I know,” you tell him, “I know.”

 

Your cheeks turn suddenly damp and Mycroft feels a sudden horrible sense of guilt. “I want to get the words out”- he breaks off, “You-You understand me F/N, I’ve never”- he chokes out. 

 

“No, it’s not that,” you cut him off, fiddling with his chest. “I just, I want you to know too that seeing you like that on the floor”-you pull your hand back and press it to your cheek-“Seeing you like that and not knowing-not knowing whether you were going to be all right…” your body begins to tremble with a sob. “I was so scared, so scared that I’d never be able to tell you any of this, that we’d never be together…”

 

Mycroft leans in closer, cupping at your cheek with his hand. You let out a bit of a relieved, watery giggle, before Mycroft draws his head down. His lips catch upon yours in the next moment. You let out a breath and push closer towards him. He makes a muffled sound of surprise. One of your hands goes to his waist as he steadies your side with his. The kiss lasts a few wonderful moments more, before you pull away from him releasing a bit of a puff of breath. The next moment you let out a nervous kind of laugh, before you bury your head against his chest. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asks in a gentlemanly fashion, carefully combing his fingers through your hair. 

 

You make a stifled sound against his chest, before you draw your head back. Your eyes sparkle against his for a moment, before you kiss him gently.

 

Mycroft lets you take control this time and he feels as if his whole body is filling up with light and coming alive. Your lips slide experimentally against his, exploring and vaguely tasting, before your hand goes to the back of his neck to push him even closer. Your teeth graze against his lips and he jerks a little against you, making a soft sound of surprise against your mouth. You pull away from him a moment later with wide eyes and a blush upon your face. Mycroft feels that fear of not being in control fill him again, but then, as he looks at you, he realizes suddenly that you feel it too. 

 

You draw away from him and let out a couple of steadying breaths. Your eyes graze against his collarbone for the longest of times, before they meet his again. “I-I know that we didn't really hesitate before, and that things moved pretty fast, but I-well-I”- you break off. The truth is that you’d rather that things were more romantic this time. That you were both careful and took things a little slower. 

 

“I agree,” Mycroft breathes understandingly. “Besides”-you look at him-“As the doctors said there’s only so far that I can go right now.”

 

You bite down on your lip and look away. “But if-if that time comes and I'm still not”-

 

“I would never put any pressure on you F/N,” Mycroft interrupts. 

 

You see that he’s smiling genuinely at you, and, feeling better, you let out a breath and smile at him yourself, before you snuggle in closer together. You wake up in each other’s arms the next morning and it’s the best sleep that the pair of you has had for a long time. 

 

*

 

The next day when Mycroft works from home via his laptop and phone you take the opportunity to go out to 221B and visit Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. You also pop inside the police station to see Greg and Sally. Mycroft seems approving about you trying to take control of your life and getting out of the house, but you can’t deny that you miss him. You feel closer to him than ever after the thoughts you’d shared with him last night. 

 

It’s a relief to get back that late afternoon and step inside the house, which is already beginning to feel like a sort of home to you. 

 

You smell the soft scent of chicken cooking and your stomach rumbles. 

 

“Ah F/N,” Mycroft says, coming out of the kitchen as you finish hanging your coat up. He pads towards you. “Come with me, my dear,” he murmurs, taking your hands lightly in his and walking backwards so that he can take you into the kitchen. Your heart does a nervous flip, but you feel both excited and intrigued. 

 

When you get into the kitchen Mycroft steps aside. You see that there’s a silver laptop upon the table. You frown at it for a moment because it doesn’t look like his. 

 

“For you,” he tells you with a smile, gesturing at it. Your mouth opens and you look at him. “Just a little gift. As happy as I was to see you going out visiting old friends this morning there will no doubt be times of course when you can’t do that or you’ll find that you prefer to stay in the house. If I'm working here or indeed back in my office as I shall be next week then I do not want you to be bored. I thought that having a laptop again might be to your liking.”

 

“Oh my God Mycroft thank you,” you say, closing the gap between you and hugging him tightly as happiness fills you.

 

Mycroft kisses your hair approvingly. “I thought it might be a good way of you getting your thoughts out in a healthier way too, considering that you’re a scriptwriter and used to expressing yourself in that way. I was considering buying you a fancy notebook of some kind, but as soon as this occurred to me I knew that this was what it had to be. The paper will never run out after all.”

 

“Thank you,” you say, smiling as you pull away from him, “But really it’s a very expensive gift, I”-

 

“I wouldn't have it any other way my dear,” he interrupts. 

 

“You’re very kind,” you tell him, patting at his chest. 

 

Mycroft gives you an indulgent smile. “I'm doing it primarily for reasons of your health,” he informs you, “Speaking of which”- he adds, moving aside and indicating at the area where the wine is usually kept. 

 

“It’s back,” you breathe, staring at how full that area is once more. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft confirms, “I'm letting you have these too,” he says, slipping out the small container of paracetamol from the inside pocket of his jacket and handing them to you. You allow your fingers to curl around it for a moment and feel a sense of relief at having them again, but then you look at him enquiringly. “I'm trusting you with both these things,” he tells you. “I trust that you feel bad enough about what happened before to use them more sensibly. I trust that in the day and when I'm at work not a drop of alcohol will touch your lips”-you open your mouth-“I'm not saying that you should abstain. All I'm saying is that I want you to be sensible and very conscious of when you decide to have some and how emotional you’re feeling at that point. By all means I see no reason why we can’t have a glass or two together some evenings, but I do not want you using it for pain relief. Similarly when you have a headache I want you to ask yourself if it really is severe enough to warrant paracetamol.”

 

You nod. That seems fair enough. 

 

*

 

The rest of the week drifts by pleasantly. Mycroft and you spend some time apart during the day because of Mycroft’s work and re-unite once more in the evening. You avoid drinking any alcohol until then, conscious that Mycroft will be aware of it if you do. You do your best too to refrain from taking any paracetamol, but you find it harder to stay away from them than the alcohol because during the day you have more than ample time to think about things, and though Mycroft’s gift is useful in distracting you, you feel just as confused and messy about things as ever. Feelings which often lead onto a headache. 

 

When Mycroft returns to work that following Monday you know that as well as it being a challenge for him to return fully to work it is a task for you too. You find that as you go on your laptop by the kitchen table, conscious that you’ve got the house to yourself, your eyes drift towards the bottles of wine. A dull pain thrums beneath your temple every time they do so and you almost consider going on your laptop in another room, before you remain stubbornly where you are. You know that Mycroft would not approve of you drinking and you can’t let him down. Monday though you get through, and you feel a sense of pleasure when Mycroft comes home and looks at you approvingly as he no doubt realizes that you’ve been good. You can’t know how oddly happy it makes him to have someone to come home to either. 

 

It is as the week goes on though that you begin to have more difficulty. You've started writing about the experiences you’ve had since losing your memory and bits and pieces of what you can remember about before that time too in the hope that, as Mycroft said, it will be a healthier route in expressing yourself, it will help you figure out how you’re supposed to feel about your parents, and help you to better accept everything. You hope too that it might also lead on to you being able to return to writing something of a fictional nature too. But the more you type and the further through your honest tale you get the more you begin to see just how much to blame for everything Moriarty is, is true. He’s to blame for pushing Sherlock and Mycroft into a corner and making them think that the best option they had available to them was for Sherlock to fake his own death. He’s the one who sent a sub-ordinate around to your parents’s cottage and began poisoning their minds. Yes, they might not have ever approved of your life in London, _or_ of the friends you keep-the past you had definitely been somewhat of this belief if the way that you’d lied and told them that Sherlock was a scientist is anything to go by-but would they have really taken things as far as they did without Moriarty’s help? The more you think about it the more obvious it becomes to you that they wouldn't have. You also can’t help but feel a surge of hate whenever you think about how Moriarty’s presence had kept Mycroft from being with you for so long, to the point where you feel extraordinarily lucky to have gotten together with him in the first place, and how it threatens it now. 

 

All these feelings and thoughts grow until you’re left thinking that you’d quite like to meet Moriarty if you could. Like to look him in the eye and rage at him for what he’s done to you. You’re not quite sure what good it would do, but you get the sense that it would make you feel better. You feel a little guilt for feeling such a thing every time you’re lying awake at night and watching Mycroft as he sleeps. He’s worked so hard to protect you, and despite Moriarty, you honestly seem to have a chance to be together as a couple now. Wouldn't it be hurtful to him if you walked away from that possible happiness just to confront Moriarty? A poorer way than even drinking too much or messing with pills would be of repaying him? What if you got injured or ended up losing some of your memories again? You can’t expect Mycroft to stand by you every time you act foolishly. Besides, if you did do something about it then surely you’d have to wait a bit longer until Mycroft’s twenty-eight days are up at the very least. You’re reluctant to put any more stress on him right now and risk him having another heart attack. In any case you don’t even know where Moriarty is. Although you can’t help but think that finding Moriarty probably wouldn't be too hard and that he’d make himself known to you if you made it clear somehow that you wanted to meet him. Can’t help but think that even though confronting Moriarty might not be the best thing for your relationship with Mycroft it is something that you have to do. Can’t help but think that even if you wait a while, if the feeling inside you is as it is now when Mycroft’s twenty-eight days are up then you’ll be hard pushed _not_ to try and find Moriarty yourself. You just need to meet him and find out what he’s like because the tale you’re writing is not complete and the heroine needs to have a showdown with the one last man who stands in her way.

 

Friday arrives and you’re once more mulling over these thoughts as you sit by the kitchen table on your laptop facing the hallway. There’s a sudden thunk as something comes through the letterbox. You get up and frown, padding around, down the hallway and towards the door to see what it is. It turns out just to be a flimsy piece of paper. On it is a date for the week after next, the name of your local church in Wales and the time of two o’ clock in the afternoon. A shiver runs through you. You open the door instinctively to see if you can spot the person who delivered the message, but there’s no one there. You close the door again and swallow. You know that if you go Moriarty will be there at the church that day. Know instinctively that this is an open invitation from him. You take the message back to the kitchen table with you. As you sit down you do a quick calculation in your head and realize that, that date will be Mycroft’s twenty-eighth day. You swallow. Choosing such a day feels like a deliberate thing. Like Moriarty had known that although you would have been tempted you wouldn't have gone to meet him on a day before that. Your eyes drift to the side and fix on the bottles of wine. You swallow. You feel suddenly tempted to have a glass to help get you through this latest development. You frown and your hands fidget as you look to your lap. Mycroft would not approve. In fact if he knew of what had just happened then he would probably be telling you to ring him right now and discuss the message. He’d come up with some plan, that you’re sure of, but more than that you know that he’d tell you not to go. Not to risk this tentative yet happy new beginning between the pair of you. You’re with each other at last, why risk that? Why risk it just to go through an attempt at making peace with your past when it might not even work? Surely if you went then it would give the impression to everyone that you don’t care very much for Mycroft’s heart and what happens to it? Especially to Mycroft himself? His parents would hate you, you’re sure. _You’d_ hate you if anything happened to Mycroft now because of you. But you have to do this. You get up and begin to pace back and forth. Now that Moriarty’s made direct contact with you how can you refuse? How can you _not_ go there? You huff out a breath. Before you know what you’re doing you’re striding across, tugging a bottle of wine out, opening it and pouring some of it into a glass. 

 

*

 

Mycroft comes home to find you slumped in the chair by the table. Your laptop’s still on and buzzing away. He’s only glad that you haven’t made an attempt at cooking and set the whole place on fire because he can tell as soon as he looks at you that you’re drunk. 

 

Your head is tilted onto your shoulder, your body slumped, eyes unfocused. You've got a silly smile playing about your face and your hand is curled around a half-empty wine glass. A bottle of the stuff is on the table as is a few droplets from where you’d spilt some as you no doubt topped up your glass. Thankfully they’re away from your laptop. But that does not stop Mycroft from feeling considerably worried when he sees that you’ve drunk three-quarters of this particular bottle. He senses that it’s not your first. 

 

The stupid grin on your face grows. “Mycroft.” You heave yourself clumsily up and stagger across to him. Mycroft’s brow furrows in disapproval. “Mycroft, Mykie, _Myc,”_ you breathe once you reach him. You place a hand on his chest and fiddle with his burgundy tie. “Why does your mother call you Mykie? I'm going to call you Myc. Myc Holmes. Do you like that?” Mycroft’s about to say that he’d rather you didn't shorten his name, especially when you’re in such a state, but before he can you say, “I'm so glad”-you pause to release a hiccup-“So glad that you’re back. I need you. I’ve needed you all day. Why did you leave me for so long?” You begin to stroke absent-mindedly at the black waistcoat that he’s wearing. Mycroft stiffens. “God you feel so good,” you exclaim, letting out a bit of a giggle as you look at him. “So-So good, at least your clothes do, but I bet you’d feel better without them.” You move your other hand to his waistcoat. Mycroft shivers. “I-I know we said that we’d-we’d wait and take things slow, why-why did we say that?” You ask, apparently having forgotten that it was because of you. You lurch forwards and practically purr into his ear, “Don’t you want to get down and dirty with me Mycroft?” Mycroft’s trousers feel suddenly tight and he clenches his jaw to try and combat the situation. “Don’t you? Don’t you?” you say, still close by his ear. Mycroft’s hands go up to hold your arms. You lunge suddenly forwards and bite at his ear. Mycroft lets out a yelp of surprise and jerks away from you. You giggle dirtily. “I'm ready now. I think we should go upstairs and you should let me undress you. I want you Mycroft. I need you,” you whisper breathlessly. “I know that you need me too. I can feel you.” Your hand goes suddenly to the bulge in his trousers and gives it a quick squeeze. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes widen at the feel of your hand touching him there and he nearly forgets the entirety of the situation until you stumble against him and force him to stagger back in order to steady you as you attempt to kiss him sloppily. He twists off to the side and holds you at arms length. “You’re drunk,” he tells you, "And in any case you know because of my condition that we cannot be intimate right now." 

 

Tears spring from your eyes. “I'm not,” you say, shaking your head at him, before you go on flirtatiously, "In any case you seem to be fully able to function to me." 

 

"Well I'm not," Mycroft growls irritably.

 

“Why are you being like this?" You fall in between his arms onto his chest. Your hands go up to stroke-or rather _claw_ clumsily-at the side of his face. "I’ve been good all day.” You wrap your arms around his middle and press your head against his chest like a persistent leech. You squeeze him hard.

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “F/N there can be no denying it. You’re drunk. There’s a glass of wine on the table, which you’ve been drinking from and the bottle’s almost empty. I can smell it on you, and I know for a fact that you wouldn't usually act so strongly,” he says, attempting to hold you back from him.

 

“Don’t you just want to switch off sometimes?” you ask, shrugging him off you and looking up at him a little disappointedly. In your opinion Mycroft and you should be upstairs right now frantically undressing each other. Or doing such a thing in here. You’re not fussy. When he just looks at you again and hesitates for far too long however you lunge forwards and try to kiss him, your hands falling to his chest. 

 

“No F/N stop it,” he tells you, his hands on your arms as he tries to force you back. 

 

“Tell me that you love me,” you say, leaning forwards so that you can attempt to kiss him again. He leans back to dodge you. Thank God you’re shorter than him he finds himself thinking, though at this rate he’ll still end up on the floor with you ripping his clothes off. As the thought occurs to him he’s not altogether sure if he minds, condition or not. “Tell me!” you order. You stick your tongue out and flick it towards him, heading for his shut lips. 

 

 _“No!”_ Mycroft blurts out, finally knowing because of the way that you’re being so demanding how he feels for certain, “I won’t tell you because I don’t want to be with you, not when you’re being like this! And nor do I love you when you’re acting in such a way.”

 

You withdraw from him suddenly and stumble back against the table. You fold your arms and look upset. “I'm not being anything,” you mumble, before you whine, “Why can’t you just do what I want?”

 

“You’re drunk,” Mycroft murmurs fervently, before he informs you, “You must know that you are.” Your face crumples. Mycroft huffs out a breath. “I'm going to take you upstairs”-your expression changes at once, becoming more hopeful-“So that you can sleep off all this silliness,” he quickly continues. Your face falls. “You can eat something later on or tomorrow if it comes to it. I’ll bring you up a glass of water once you’re there.”

 

You nod, before you clutch at your stomach suddenly. Mycroft hopes that you won’t be sick and steps forwards so that he can half-guide you and half-manhandle you upstairs. 

 

You fight against him a little, before you allow him to steer you. 

 

As soon as he takes you into the bedroom you flop down fully clothed on the bed. Mycroft has to huff and prod at you to get you underneath the duvet. You’re soon fast asleep and snoring. 

 

*

 

You don’t wake until half-past nine the following morning. Your mouth feels dry, your stomach ravenous, and your head pounds. Mycroft has already left for work despite the fact that it's a Saturday. You groan a little as some of the memories from the previous night return to you. You remember your hands being on Mycroft’s waistcoat. You sense that you’d acted inappropriately and that he hadn’t been pleased with you. You sigh. You’re not looking forward to finding out how awkward things will be between you. You also feel a portion of guilt at letting him down, but you feel too ill to focus on that much right now. It’s only when you turn groggily to the bedside cabinet that you realize that things are perhaps worse than you’d first anticipated. For Mycroft’s left you a glass of water and paracetamol. But alongside them both is the note that had come through the letterbox just yesterday. Mycroft must have seen it. You can’t imagine that he would have put it there without reading it. 

 

To your surprise though he doesn’t mention it at all when he comes home. In fact, aside from making some curt remark about how good it is to see that you’re looking more like yourself today-something which instantly makes you feel guilty-he’s very quiet. 

 

You feel nervous and apprehensive around him. You think that he might say something at dinner and your prediction proves right when in the end he says, “I can see how drinking might be appealing to you. You have been through a lot. No doubt it helps to take the edge off things. But then again, after you’ve already forgotten so much, it does make me wonder why you’d want to risk forgetting even more?”

 

A muscle twitches in your jaw as you stare regretfully down at your plate. “I know you’re disappointed in me.”

 

 _“That_ is an understatement my dear,” Mycroft murmurs, leaning back in his chair and staring down at you consideringly, whilst he chews on his food. 

 

You glance at him testily. Finally you say, “Sometimes I just wish that I really was a goldfish. They live in water. I think I’d quite like to do the same, just live in a bubble where nothing can hurt me so much.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft swallows his mouthful, “It’s true that such an existence is a simpler one, but I think you’ll find that you’ll be able to make much more sense out of things if you keep your mind clear.”

 

You huff out a breath, before you abandon the rest of your dinner and stand up. “Perhaps I’ve got less sense than a goldfish then,” is what you tell him, “Because right now I just want to forget about everything.” You drift out of the room and head upstairs. 

 

Mycroft sighs after you. 

 

*

 

Things remain tense and difficult between Mycroft and you. You share the same bed, but sleep with your backs turned to one another. 

 

One night, just before you slip down into bed you look across to Mycroft. The light, which is still on in the room shines across his hair, and he’s so close to the edge of the bed that he couldn't be any further away from you. You feel sad that things have come to this and know that in the end it is probably your fault for not breaching the topic of the note with him. But you’re curious as to why he hasn’t mentioned it to you himself. 

 

As you get up early on the twenty-eighth day of his recuperation you’re fully expecting to leave for Wales without ever having a conversation about it with him. You wish that things were better between you, before setting off for such a treacherous meeting, but at the same time you know that there is no way you can pass up this opportunity. Who knows if you’ll ever get it again? Still, that doesn’t stop you from feeling bad as you silently dress and pack a few things. 

 

You’re just doing up the buttons on your black jacket and thinking that you should leave a small note to at least _try_ and explain part of your reasons for going, when Mycroft says, “I won’t stop you from going if that’s what you’re thinking.” You start. He switches the light on a moment later. You can’t know that he’s been thinking about things all night and waiting for the inevitable to happen as he lied there, so you watch with your heart in your throat as he rolls around onto his back, before he sits up. His eyes fall upon you calculatingly. “I know it is something that you have to do.”

 

You feel such a relief at hearing that, that a little breath escapes you. A couple of tears leak out of your eyes and your mind, which has been filled with a headache momentarily clears like cloud shifting away from the sun. You go across and hug him. “Thank you,” you say gratefully as you pull back from him. 

 

“I do however want you to have this,” Mycroft says, turning towards the drawer of the bedside cabinet. He pulls out a revolver and places it in your astonished hand. 

 

You look down at it in shock. “I don’t know how to use it,” you say stupidly. 

 

“Oh,” Mycroft smiles, “I think you’ll find that you will if the time comes.” You glance between him and the revolver, not sure what to make of it all. Mycroft leans back and stares at you consideringly. “I am usually a man who prefers disputes to be settled by talk, but I cannot let you face Moriarty of all people unprotected. I have explained your intentions to my brother and John, the latter of whom seemed to agree with me enough to allow me, and by default you, to have his gun on loan for a short period of time.”

 

You nod and turn so that you can carefully place the gun inside your rucksack. “Why did you not talk to me about any of it until now?” you ask when you turn back to him. 

 

“I didn't want to influence you for one thing,” Mycroft confesses, “I knew that it had to be your decision and I knew that, as much as I wanted to talk to you about it all, I would not be able to help myself in trying to persuade you not to go. I also knew that although a large part of you would still want to go you’d be reluctant to do so if I protested.” You look at him sympathetically. “Though I did hope that you might be honest with me and breach the topic yourself”-

 

“I'm sorry,” you tell him. 

 

“For another thing,” he murmurs, ignoring your apologies, “As callous as this might sound I would, at the end of the day, rather attend your funeral knowing that you died doing something that you wanted to then have you feeling stifled and unhappy, whilst in this house.”

 

Your heart swells with love for him. You go across and wrap your arms around him. You breathe in his scent deeply, before you peck him on the cheek. “I’ll come back to you I promise,” you tell him. 

 

As he looks at you, you can tell that although he’s trying to be quiet and stoic for your benefit he’s also wondering how on earth you can promise him that. 

 

You leave the house for Wales feeling a great determination to put Mycroft first no matter what Moriarty might say or do and to finally finish the tale and write the pair of you a happily ever after. 

 

*

 

As you draw up the steps and the path towards the church your heart pounds. You skulk carefully up to the entrance, keeping close to the short grass, which gets rustled by the breeze. A grey sky that threatens rain hangs overhead. You swallow and slip your rucksack off your back just before you get to where the wooden door is open. You slide the gun out of it, whilst your heart thumps and you leave the rucksack in a nook outside, before, as you pin the gun to your leg you step slowly in. A faint light shines through the stained glass windows, illuminating the empty pews. Whilst every quiet step that you attempt to make sounds like a call to war on the hard floor. You inch tentatively forwards, keeping an eye on all four corners, but the church appears to be empty. You straighten up, considering what you should do. You’re not sure how further forwards you should go. It feels foolish to stray too far from the door, and you feel sure if you do that then you might only be making things more difficult for yourself. 

 

You chew on your lip, before you jump in the next moment when Darren emerges from the door that’s at the left of the lectern. 

 

You raise your gun at him immediately, but he merely raises his hands in supplication and walks across until he’s facing you at the bottom of the aisle. Apparently he’s weapon less. 

 

The pace of your heart gets more frantic at the sight of him and the hand that holds the gun noticeably shakes. You have to bring up your other one in order to steady it. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “Where’s your boss?”

 

“I'm here for the same reason you are,” Darren says, letting out a heavy sigh. “Hopefully to bring things to an end.” You open your mouth, but Darren gets there first as he adds, “You don’t know me at all, do you F/N? If you did then you would know that the only boss I answer to is the one above.”

 

“Don’t give me that crap,” you tell him. Darren’s lips twitch downward unpleasantly. You shift your position, but keep your gun fixed on him. “You can pretend to be as Christian as you like, but it doesn’t change what you did”-

 

“What _I_ did?” Darren asks, letting out a mocking laugh. You frown. “You have no idea about what I’ve suffered do you? No idea how much turmoil I was put in as soon as your crying mother came to me, spilling out the whole sorry saga and begging me for help.” He lets out a breath. “I couldn't even give her an answer straight away. I had to tell her to leave me for a while. I had to pray. I had to ask God what I was supposed to do. I agonized over it for more moments than you’ve ever cared to appreciate!” The pair of you stare at each other silently for a moment. “But then yes, I agreed because here was a woman wanting my help. One of my parishioners no less. If it weren’t for me then both your family and you could be in a lot more difficulty right now.” You look at him doubtfully. “I know this has all been about you. The F/N L/N show, but you might like to appreciate what you’ve put everyone else through too.” You open your mouth angrily, but again Darren gets there first, “Your parents for one thing, worrying about you just because you couldn't tell them the truth about your life in London and your friends there. Did you know that they had to re-mortgage the cottage just to pay Moriarty for carrying this out?” Your mouth opens all the wider. “But I'm not here to judge you F/N. You’ll get that at some point, we all will, I just want to say that if your friends in London are genuine ones then you’ve put them through a lot too by being so closed off. Me too, by failing to understand the guilt that I’ve had to live with every day, ever since I realized that I was responsible for your memory loss.” Your mouth closes and you swallow, before you open it again. “Mycroft too has suffered”-

 

“Don’t you dare say his name,” you begin, stepping forwards angrily, “You’re not even fit to”- 

 

There comes a sudden high-pitched laughter that seems to originate right from the roof of the church itself. It makes you jump. Your hands fumble on the gun and you look around anxiously. 

 

A moment later the door that’s to the left of the lectern opens once more and a short man with slicked back dark hair, cold brown eyes and a mouth that’s currently chewing gum steps out. You know that this is Moriarty. He’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt with rounded collar and a tie that has skulls on. You shiver. He nods, before he looks up and around the church. He steps casually across towards the bottom of the aisle, his hands in his pockets, coming further forwards than Darren had, before he stops and faces you. His eyes slide up and down, hovering to the gun, before he smirks. 

 

“Go on then,” Moriarty drawls, nodding to the gun and you shift your position, “If you’re going to use it then you should probably use it on me now.” He lunges his leg casually out towards you and does a basic move that you’d find in an exercise video, before he straightens up again. His eyes flick back to you. “Use it before I talk too much or call my men to restrain you.” You look around, as far as you’re aware it’s just Moriarty, Darren and you in the church. “They've got the entire place covered,” he informs you and you scowl. His smirk grows. “You should probably have done it, before your friends arrived too.” You look at him confusedly. In the next moment there’s a scraping of noise from behind you. Your heart catches in your throat. Moriarty nods to a spot that’s over your shoulder. You whirl around to see that everyone you hold dear from London is now lined up by the entrance. There’s Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Mary, Greg and Sally. Next to Sally there’s also a man you don’t recognize, but you think that might be Anderson who Sally had mentioned to you so long ago when you’d been in hospital. Standing in between each and every one of them are Moriarty’s men. All of your friends look tense and serious and the very sight of them makes you whirl around and demand, “Let them go! Right now!”

 

Moriarty, who’s moved closer to you, just smiles. He raises both his hands and eyebrows. “What makes you think that I'm holding them captive?” You open your mouth. 

 

“We came here out of our own free will F/N,” Mycroft’s soft voice tells you. 

 

You turn around just in time to see one of Moriarty’s men jostling Mycroft as punishment for talking. Mycroft, looking a little ruffled, draws away from him, before his eyes go back to you. They flicker with something, revealing a light beneath the darkness and finally you understand. You let out a choked breath and lower your gun as you look at them and take them all in properly. John gives you an encouraging, tight smile as if to tell you that you’re doing really well. Sweat shines on his brow. You can tell that he’s worried about you. Worried about everyone. Your heart softens and your eyes go to Sherlock. The youngest Holmes brother’s eyes glitter as they meet yours. He inclines his head. His lips are curved slightly upward and they give you hope. Your eyes fall on Mycroft. There’s something tight and inscrutable about his face. You know that he won’t give anything away about your relationship as long as Moriarty is standing there. That even though Moriarty knows that Mycroft loves you he’ll never learn just how much you mean to him. For Mycroft this meeting is about damage control. But you feel a pull towards him all the same. Right then your love for each other may be submerged just beneath the surface but it shines as true as it ever has. Mary may be pregnant, but she looks fierce. Her eyes are dark and her lips are curved down. She looks more ready to attack Moriarty than any of the men. Greg, his hair slightly messy and his suit a little crumpled, which seems to be his usual state now you realize, looks tense, but ready to do anything that should be needed of him should Moriarty show the slightest sign of hurting you or anyone else. Sally and the man you’re assuming is Anderson both incline their heads when you look at them. But something about Sally’s face and the way that her eyes sparkle tell you in particular that, _‘This is it.’_ This is the moment that everyone, without even realizing it, has been waiting for. You look back at Moriarty. 

 

He’s closer to you now, only a couple of steps away, and the fact that he’s crept up on you without you even realizing it makes alarm fill you. Your hands jerk up, fumbling with the gun, before they lower it again as you release a huff of breath. 

 

Moriarty seems amused. “Even now you’re only just realizing that the people behind you would do anything for you, aren't you honey?” He bridges the gap between you and places the back of his hand against your cheek, giving it a faint caress. You jerk away from him, before you end up moving around each other until you’re now facing your friends and Moriarty is blocking them from you. He stares at you. You swallow and raise your gun. “If you were going to do it than you would have done it by now,” he tells you. “It’s too late. You won’t act, not when one wrong move could kill one of your beloved friends.” You swallow, knowing that he’s right. “But I’ll make it easy for you honey, don’t worry,” Moriarty says softly, before you move around each other until you’re back where you both started. “Go on then,” he purrs, “Clean shot.” He outstretches his hands. Your eyes linger on his for a moment, before you look down towards his puffed out chest. You might not be hugely experienced with weapons, certainly in this post-incident life, but you’ve got a feeling that even you couldn't miss him if you fired now. “It’s what you wanted isn't it?” Moriarty asks. “To change everything”-your eyes widen once you realize that he’d seen the same notes you had back at 221C-“Well now you can,” Moriarty smirks. “You can put an end to me right here and stop me from hurting you or any of your precious friends ever again.”

 

“You wouldn't be able to blame me if I did,” you utter, holding the gun up so that it’s level with his chest. You lower your head and make sure that the angle is correct. Your feet slide further apart, so that you can steady yourself. Your eyes narrow. Your finger hovers over the trigger in preparation. “You caused agony to me, to all of us when you made Sherlock do what he did. Then you had the nerve to come up to me in the masquerade ball. The nerve to send someone to poison my parents minds. To make them think that I wasn't a good person, that I wasn't living a good life. You backed them in a corner just as much as you did to Sherlock. I can see that now. You then had the audacity to set up my incident, and I know you couldn't have foreseen that I’d lose my memory but I'm still holding you responsible for all the pain and anguish that you’ve brought to me, and all of my family and friends ever since. None of it is my fault”-you look at Darren momentarily, before your eyes go back to Moriarty-“You are responsible entirely for it and I have every right and no reason to think that you won’t keep causing suffering to people in the future. Why shouldn't I put an end to that?”

 

Moriarty’s hands withdraw and he moves them so that he now holds them in a supplicating manner either side of his head instead. His brown eyes fix on you calculatingly, but he does not speak. 

 

Mycroft however clears his throat in a soft fashion. 

 

The act takes you by surprise. It jolts your mind, makes your head lift up and your gun lower slightly. You’re reminded suddenly of what Mycroft had said about how he usually fights with words and it’s like your mind can think clearly about this for the first time. All the anger and hate give way to logic, _and,_ you know the two things don’t always go hand in hand, but _love._

 

After all, what will you be left with if you shoot Moriarty? You’ll be looking at a court trial and prison. You might be in jail for years and years. How could your blossoming relationship with Mycroft possibly flourish there? The only other option if you still go through with it and kill Moriarty is to ask all of your friends to help cover it up. You’re sure that they’d do their best to. That they’d drag Moriarty’s body out underneath the cover of darkness if it came to it and help you bury him. As you see all of them and you around a shallow grave with soil on all of your hands in your mind you feel sure that the experience would bond and form an unbreakable link between you all, but then again you’re already bonded. You already have that link. You feel that more than ever today with all of them standing behind you and supporting you. But more than that they've already done enough. You don’t want to ask them to keep such a terrible secret or fear that they’ll be found out. You didn't come here after all to kill a man or to further prolong what you’ve already been through. You came here to get closure. You lower the gun to your leg, straighten up and lift your head up. 

 

“No,” you blurt out, “No. I'm not going to kill you. You know why?” Moriarty lowers his hands, chews his gum a little, studies you with those brown eyes of his and shakes his head. “Because I don’t have to.” You wave a hand at Darren. “You said earlier that you’d come here for exactly the same reason I had, and you were right. I came here to get closure, so I don’t need to do it because doing it won’t help. But more than that I don’t need to do it for another reason. You know why?” Both Darren and Moriarty shake their heads. “It’s because of them,” you point a hand at all of your friends, “I know they’re strange; I know they’re different, but I belong there. I belong in that ragtag group. They would do anything for me and I would do anything for them. It’s because of them ultimately that I'm not going to kill you. I won’t become a murderer and I'm not going to deprive myself of being around those that I love, not any longer. You can come in and out of our lives as much as possible, but none of us are going to stop carrying on because of you. Not when we've got each other, and because of that I don’t have to kill you.” You shift your position, and if you’d turned your head and looked around in that moment then you would have seen how Mycroft’s eyes are blazing with pride for you. “You can torture me, take me away from my friends, kill me in this spot right now, but if you did then I’d die feeling more content than I ever have before because I’d do so knowing who I am and where I belong.” You swallow. “You can even get someone to drive into me again”-tears curve just beneath your eyes and you shake your head-“I could even lose all of my memories and have to start this process all over again, but I know something that I didn't before, and that’s, that I’d always get back to this same point eventually. I’d always figure out where I belong. If I’ve done it this time then I can do it again.” You huff out a breath. “Bring it on,” you challenge. 

 

Everyone seems to hold their breath and a quiet descends. You can still feel the force of your words rising up and rumbling around the church. Still feel them hovering in the air all around you. You don’t know what’s going to happen next. For all you know you might have just condemned everyone. You know the guilt you’d feel if you have. But right now all you can properly focus on is how good it feels to have finally made that realization and gotten those words out, especially to the very person that you wanted to hear them the most. 

 

Finally Moriarty bows his head, spits out his gum off to the side and gestures with his hands as he looks over your shoulder. You can hear his men shuffling out of the church. You swallow and something tightens as his eyes go back to you. 

 

He approaches, curls a hand around your wrist and you shiver at the feeling of his cool fingers on your warm skin. Your stomach plummets. You feel suddenly dizzy and sick because you get the sense that you’re being taken down beneath the very floor itself and right into the very earth. 

 

“You might regret saying that,” he whispers right into the shell of your ear, before he finally lets go of you. 

 

He passes you by a moment later and you turn and watch as he pushes his way through your friends and makes his way out of the church. Darren retreats back through the door that’s to the left of the lectern. 

 

A rush of air seems to hit you and it’s like you can finally breathe again. Before you know what you’re doing you’re rushing to Mycroft and flinging your arms around his neck. You nearly bash him on the head with the gun as you do so. You’re vaguely aware of the relieved chattering of your friends that is beginning to occur as they shift their positions and start to take in what has just happened, but the one thing that you completely process is the way that Mycroft makes a muffled sound of surprise at your sudden touch. You draw your head back, push it against his chest, squeeze him and close your eyes in pleasure. God it feels so good just to be able to hold him again. You hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, but you’d been frightened, oh so frightened, when you’d left him this morning that you wouldn't even be able to do this simple act again and it would be your entire fault. 

 

John prises the gun out of your hand with a nervous, “I’ll take that now,” and you let out a watery giggle. 

 

Mycroft’s hands move to your back so that he can hold you to him and you draw your head back and peer up at him with a smile. To your surprise his eyes are shut and he seems to be just savouring the reality of you being alive and in his arms again. As if he senses where your gaze has gone however a moment later his eyes flicker open and graze against yours all too briefly, softening with light, before he ducks his head and murmurs into your ear, “I'm so proud of you,” so that only you can hear. 

 

You know that he knows that you’ve found something more important to get you through all this other than alcohol and pills and your heart swells with happiness. You lean up and make to kiss him, but before you can he shoots you a bit of a sheepish look and steps aside. 

 

You tilt back down feeling a little confused, before you stare in shock as your parents and sister become revealed and step forwards. Everyone else steps aside to allow space for this unscheduled family gathering. 

 

“We heard every word,” Alice says, “I'm so proud to have you as my sister.” She engulfs you in a hug and holds you tightly to her. You let out a gasp of surprise, before you smile and hold her tightly back, whilst she clutches at your hair. She pulls back from you with tears in her eyes and you both let out a little nervous laugh as you stare at one another. She steps aside to make way for both of your parents. 

 

For a moment the room seems to hold its breath as the three of you just stare uncertainly at one another. Then the breath gets released in relief when you let out a little choked laugh, before you close the gap between you and gather them up in your arms. Your mother and father let out sighs of liberation, before your mother clutches at your back and your father kisses your cheek. 

 

“I love you,” you say as tears stream down your face, “I love the both of you so much, you know I do, but”- you break off and step back from them, “That doesn’t mean that I'm not still hurt and angry about everything.” You swipe at your eyes. “The re-mortgage on the cottage Mum,” you say in dismay. “Not to mention the way you’ve treated Mycroft all this time.”

 

A cloud rolls across your mother’s face, before she nods at you understandingly. Your father’s arm goes around her shoulders and a renewed sort of hope suddenly sprouts in your mother’s eyes as if she has just been reminded of something. 

 

She steps forwards. “Perhaps sometime soon we could go out for a meal together? Try and repair things, break the ice?”-she looks around-“I’d quite like it if your friends could come too. I want to get to know them and”- she breaks off as Sally and Alice guide Mycroft, who’d stepped off to the side, back to you, by holding onto his elbows. His brow is furrowed, his hands outstretched, and as they let go of him he looks relieved when you turn and take his hands with a smile. “I’d like to get to know this man too,” your mother says, “Perhaps start to make amends for all we've put you both through.” 

 

You glance at her only briefly and nod, before your gaze goes back to Mycroft. “I know we’re in public,” you smile, “But I'm going to kiss you now.”

 

Mycroft only gets the chance to look mildly alarmed by the prospect of kissing in front of so many friends, his brother and not to mention in front of your family, before your lips are on his. He attempts to pull away, but you cup his head to yours, before you bite down on his lip insistently. His horror soon turns into pleasure and all of a sudden he’s got one hand on your waist and the other on your back as he returns the kiss fervently. 

 

You pull away from each other a few moments later, wearing a guilty kind of smile in Mycroft’s case-you can tell that he’d enjoyed that more than he would have liked to in such a public space-and a blush of delight in your own. 

 

“You made me remember who I am,” you tell him, “You barely spoke, but you helped me. Somehow you knew exactly what I needed,” you say with sparkling eyes.

 

“I am very glad,” Mycroft breathes, his eyes shining with a soft light.

 

You beam up at him, and as you finally wrench your gaze away from him it is to find that everyone else has left the church in order to give you both some more privacy. You think that you can hear the hum of voices coming from the churchyard, and you smile a little as you imagine some of the awkward conversations that are going on right now between your family and friends. There’ll surely be more of that to come at the meal you all go to and you find suddenly that you can’t wait for it. You let out a little happy breath and your eyes go back to Mycroft. 

 

“You know,” he murmurs, stepping forwards, so that your shoes brush together, “I might be able to assist your parents and write off that new mortgage payment.” He runs a hand through your hair. 

 

The delight upon your face grows. “I am _so_ glad that you don’t have a minor position,” you breathe, toying with his tie. 

 

Mycroft looks smug for a moment, before he steps back and muses casually, “It occurs to me that I never did ask what you intended to do once my twenty-eight days were up? I expect that you might want to come back here?” you can hear the fear underlying his words. 

 

“Don’t be silly,” you snort. Mycroft looks at you and you can feel the hope beginning to radiate from him. You smile and shift closer to him again, placing your hands on his chest. “If I came back here then the script I'm writing would feel incomplete. I would never get to continue writing my happily ever after with you.” 

 

Mycroft’s eyes darken pleasurably. “Perhaps then,” he murmurs, stroking at your hair. He cups at your cheek with his hand. “You’d consider moving in with me permanently?” 

 

“Mr. Holmes,” you breathe, “I’d be honoured to.” Your lips find his again.


	8. Meant To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally looking up for Mycroft and you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your lovely support! Really means a lot to know that people are enjoying this story. :)

“I'm just popping out to get a few things. Do you want anything?” you call, coming around the corner of the stairs. 

 

There’s some noise of shuffling, before Mycroft pops his head around the bedroom door. He eyes you in concern. “Why are you going out?” he asks. 

 

 _“Because,”_ you stare at him patiently, “Between the two of us, and in particular what with the amount of lavish meals you’ve decided to cook for me this week, we've rather demolished the contents of both the fridge _and_ the freezer.”

 

“Well, you do deserve it my dear,” Mycroft says generously, “We do have rather a lot to be celebrating after all, what with my twenty-eight days being up and us being together now.” You smile. _“But,”_ Mycroft goes on a little more promptly, “I can get someone to make a delivery of what we need.” 

 

You shake your head. “There’s no need for you to do that any more, not now that I'm here.” You go up and kiss him on the cheek. “You know I don’t like you taking advantage of your position for silly things.”

 

“Unless it’s for a good cause like getting you into a morgue?” Mycroft questions. You smile. He’d taken you to see Molly there in the past week, and though it had been a rather grim experience you’d found yourself being fascinated by everything all the same. You’d quizzed Molly more on the process of everything than on the amount of times you’d been there in the past, whilst Mycroft had pulled a face and stood off to the side, and though nothing more than a few vague flashes of you staring down at various bodies with Sherlock and John had come back to you, you’d felt glad that you’d gone there all the same. It had been good to finally complete your London tour. Your face becomes more serious though as you reminisce and Mycroft stares at you intently. “Is everything all right my dear?” You stare at him. He hesitates a moment, before he goes on, “Only, what with us going out tonight and all, there’s really no need for you to be even considering going out grocery shopping at all.”

 

You huff out a breath as the one thing, which has kept you awake this past week hurtles back to you, before you rake a hand through your hair and lean against the wall. Mycroft looks at you concernedly. “I just feel a little anxious about tonight,” you breathe. 

 

Mycroft steps properly out of the bedroom and shuts the door quietly behind him. “I have had a word with Sherlock,” he informs you, folding his arms, “About trying to be on his best behaviour and not embarrassing either of us.”

 

“It’s not that,” you give him a half-smile, “I'm more concerned about my parents and sister actually. Alice can be so mouthy sometimes, and as you know already my parents don’t exactly have the most open of minds.” Mycroft’s lips part and he steps towards you. “I just don’t want one of them saying anything and everyone arguing again, especially now that your parents are coming too.”

 

Mycroft looks worried. “If I’d known that they would have caused you such anxiety then I would have attempted to stop them from coming,” Mycroft says, and his face twists a little as he goes on, “But Mummy did so want to gatecrash.”

 

“Oh no,” you say, stepping forward worriedly, “I want them to be there. I promised a meal with them after all. It’s just”-you pause and shift your weight from one foot to the other and then back again, _“Difficult.”_ Mycroft takes you in his arms. You relax for the briefest of moments. “Sorry,” you breathe, whilst he rubs at your back softly.

 

“Please don’t apologize,” he murmurs, withdrawing from you, “As it happens I predicted that you might be panicked about everything and I’ve got you a little gift, which you might like.”

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ you say, remembering that his last ‘little gift’ to you had been your laptop. 

 

He shakes his head as if to say that he won’t hear a word of protest from you, takes the tips of your fingers gently and tugs you into the bedroom. You allow him to lead you with a smile.

 

Once there he guides you across to the wardrobe, before he lets go of you. “Open it,” he says with a nod to its door. 

 

Bubbles of anticipation bounce into one another inside of your stomach. A little breath escapes through your parted lips and you give Mycroft one last glance of intrigue, before you step forwards and slowly draw the wardrobe door open. 

 

You let out another breath when you see that he has pushed your clothes and his aside, leaving one beautiful, sparkling dark blue dress to stand out in the middle of it all. Your hand instinctively reaches to grasp at the soft fabric and Mycroft smiles, but a shadow falls across his face a moment later when he watches how your face grows more serious. 

 

“You don’t like it?” he asks, stepping closer to you and looking at you concernedly. 

 

You jump a little. “No, no I do, I really do,” you reassure him. You turn your head momentarily to look at him again, before you look back at the dress. “God, it’s beautiful,” you breathe as your hand still grips at the dress, “I just”- you struggle and swallow, before you turn your head to look at him again. Mycroft’s heart plummets when he sees that your eyes are full of tears. “It’s like something that a celebrity would wear to a red carpet event,” you shift your position awkwardly, “Not something that _I_ could ever pull off.” You look away from him, turning your head off to one side. 

 

Mycroft looks at you sadly for a moment. “You don’t have to wear it tonight,” he says, before he shifts to stand behind you and encircles your waist with his arms. “But you must know that you’re beautiful F/N.” He kisses at your neck. You hold onto his arms and push into him, closing your eyes. “I bought it,” he goes on, and as his breaths ghost across your skin you shiver, “Because I knew that you would make it look beautiful, because I knew that it was something that I could see you wearing, and more importantly because it was something that I thought you _deserved_ to wear.” You swallow. His nose nudges against your neck. Sloppy tears fall down your cheeks. As soon as he sees them Mycroft places one final gentle kiss to your neck, before he whirls around, quickly takes a handkerchief out from his pocket and uses it to dab at your face. You let out a nervous giggle, knowing that you’re probably just being silly. “Come,” he murmurs, pushing the handkerchief back into his pocket and taking your hands, “Let us sit on the bed and then you can tell me what’s been bothering you.”

 

You nod and he guides you carefully over to the bed, before you sit down at the end of it together. The chandelier glistens above you. Mycroft turns his body closer to yours and strokes at your hands for a moment, whilst you duck your head. 

 

Knowing that he needs you to speak you sniff a little, before you say, “I guess I'm just worried about, and please don’t take offence”-Mycroft’s heart hitches in his chest-“The last week has been amazing. I'm already feeling a lot better from everything and you’ve been so sweet to me, but”- you break off and look down. Mycroft shifts even closer to you and his hands slide against yours as he does so. “But what if I'm not good enough?” Mycroft’s lips part as you look at him. “For your parents? For _you?”_ Mycroft’s hand goes to your hair and you can tell that he’s about to ask why on earth you’d even think that. “I can’t even remember much about us, not even when we made love.” You look at Mycroft worriedly. His blue eyes stare at you with a pained concern. “If I can’t even remember something as important as that now then maybe I never will. What if I don’t?” You let out a little panicked breath. “What if this is as far as I can go? Would you-would you still love me?”

 

“Oh my dear,” Mycroft says, cupping at the back of your hair, “Of course, of _course_ I would.” He pecks briefly at your lips. 

 

You push your clenched hands against your jeans and look down, clearly struggling. “You’re not”-you look back to him-“By buying me this dress and asking me to move in with you and everything just waiting for me to become the person that I once was? Waiting for me to be fully restored to my old self? Because you have to know that I'm not sure if I’ll ever”- you break off, your head rising high in the air in anxiety. 

 

Mycroft gets up and moves swiftly in front of you, going down on his knees. He takes your hands in his, before you remove one so that you can stroke his hair and down the side of his face. 

 

Mycroft looks down at your lap. “It doesn’t matter if you remember any more, not to me. We've found each other again, that’s what matters”-you open your mouth-“Of course everything still hurts,” he assures you, squeezing at your hands, “I feel personal pain that you might not ever remember our first time together”-he looks up at you and you let out a bit of a gurgle, rubbing at his hair-“I feel pain for you for having been robbed of such things in the first place”-

 

“It’s more than that,” you tell him, both your hands twisting and tightening upon his. He looks at you. “If I don’t remember any more, or at least nothing of significance then to me the first time I met you, even though I understand that it wasn't, will always be when I woke up in hospital, saw you and started to push you away. Can you live with that?”

 

“If I have to then I will,” Mycroft murmurs and you let out a bit of a sigh, before you listen as he goes on, “Of course I could always help fill in some of those memories for you if you wanted. I know that they wouldn't be _yours,_ but”-

 

“Tell me about the masquerade ball,” you command, “It hurts that I can remember dancing a little with Moriarty, but nothing else. Did _we_ dance together at all?”

 

“We did, just the once,” Mycroft confirms. As you stare at him he can tell that you want to picture the whole scene. “When you first arrived there that night, with Lestrade,” Mycroft acknowledges, “I couldn't take my eyes off you. You were by far the most beautiful woman in the room.” You blush a little and duck your head. Mycroft cups your cheek with his hand and strokes at it with his thumb until your bashful, but curious e/c eyes meet his again. He withdraws his hand. “I wanted to go over there and ask if you would be my dancing partner, but I knew that it would not be appropriate, what with you having attended with Lestrade and all. For the longest of times I just watched. I watched as you danced with the police officer and then disappointed him. I watched you do the same with Anderson and my brother. I watched as a man at a table you went to asked you to dance”-

 

 _“Moriarty?”_ you question. Mycroft nods and a rush of breath escapes you, before you lurch forwards and press your forehead against his. Moriarty may be out of your life for the moment and what with everyone who needs to know having been told of his return in the past week you do feel a little more secure in the knowledge that there are more eyes out there looking for him, but at the same time you get the feeling that the thought of what that man has already done and what he could still do will always leave you feeling a little breathless and vulnerable. Knowing that Mycroft probably feels in a similar way when all is said and done, despite the fact that he’d never admit it, your hand goes up to just beneath his shoulder and you stroke at the fabric there, giving comfort and seeking it. The pair of you allow your eyes to shut and you just listen to each other’s breathing for a moment. You pull away. 

 

“After your dance with him I saw him whisper something into your ear”-

 

“ ‘Love from the devil,’” you murmur as your body tenses. 

 

“Hmm?” 

 

“ ‘Love from the devil,’ that’s what he said,” you tell him. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes darken. “In any case you seemed panicked and though I did not recognize him I was keen to make sure that he had not upset you. I approached you and we spoke for a time on the balcony. It was dark. We could barely see anything. You seemed quiet and rather lost in thought. You refused my offer to dance at first, before you changed your mind.”

 

You look at him curiously. “What changed my mind?”

 

“I believe that you wanted to try and enjoy yourself. You said something about ‘throwing caution to the wind,’” Mycroft says, and you both smile a little at that.

 

Mycroft gets up off the bed, stands promptly in front of you like a soldier on parade and offers you his hand. You glance at his long, slender fingers for a moment, before you smile and let him help you to your feet. Mycroft leads you a little away from the bed, before he turns to you. He keeps one of your hands in his and places your other upon his waist, before he puts his own hand upon yours. You dance together silently, but with his eyes a steady, reassuring presence upon yours, you feel a surge of emotion rise up inside you. You let go of him, allow your hands to slide diagonally up until they fall over his shoulders and move closer until your bodies bump into one another. You let out a little breath against his shoulder and move to rest your hands against his back. He moves his to hold you to him and you sway gently together. You close your eyes and just breathe in his scent for a moment. 

 

“I think I’d quite like it if the masquerade ball could become my first memory of meeting you,” you pull your head back from him.

 

“All right,” Mycroft nods softly, “But do not forget that whilst some memories from your past may be lost forever to you, you have many happier ones to create in your future.” You peer up at him and he brushes a strand of hair back from your face. “Do not get so caught up in trying to finish the jigsaw puzzle that you forget to live.” You smile a little, liking that way of thinking. “You might also like to consider the memories you have made since your incident, for there are some, which you might not have had, had this not happened to you.” 

 

You nod thoughtfully and think about all that. You smile at the thought of creating many happy memories together with him in the future, and as you remember the first helicopter ride, the access you’d been granted to the Diogenes Club, the jigsaw you’d then begun to complete together whilst there, the poetry that Mycroft had read to you, you realize suddenly that he’s right. You _do_ have a lot of beautiful new memories that you might have never had if your incident had not befallen you. Memories that you wouldn't trade for the scattered few that have not returned. A small smile forms upon your face and you lean up to kiss him. 

 

“I think I'm going to take a quick shower, before we go,” you say as you pull back from him. 

 

Mycroft nods, and you give him a quick smile, before you head to the bathroom. 

 

Once you come out, wrapped in a plush white towel that of course has Mycroft’s initials on it-he’s said that he’ll put in an order for some with your name on soon-you head back to the bedroom. Mycroft must have headed back downstairs because it’s completely empty now, and you find yourself chewing on your lip as you go back across to look at the blue dress. You hesitate, before you pull it out. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s in the living room and facing the fireplace when he hears the soft clearing of your throat behind him. He swivels around, taking his hands out of his pockets and letting out a little breath when he sees you. Your hair is down, flowing tidily across your shoulders. You’re smiling nervously at him, _and,_ most importantly of all, you’re wearing the blue dress. He hadn’t been wrong, it does suit you, and as his eyes drop down he notices how it reveals your collarbone and accentuates your figure. Your legs peek out a little from the split that runs down the side of the dress and Mycroft swallows. You look more beautiful than he has ever seen you. More beautiful in fact than even on the night of the masquerade ball. 

 

His eyes move up to yours. A dusting of pink now covers your cheeks because of the way he’s just been looking at you. “You look truly stunning my dear.”

 

Your blush grows. “I could say the same to you,” you murmur, letting your gaze properly drink in the grey, pinstripe three-piece suit that he’s wearing, white shirt and blue tie and pocket handkerchief to match your dress. Mycroft smiles and does a little playful bow, before he swoops across, takes your hand in his and bends to kiss it. “You look very handsome,” you grin as he straightens up. 

 

“Handsome enough for your parents?” Mycroft asks with a quirk of his eyebrow, and you can tell that he’s only half-joking. 

 

“Most definitely,” you reassure him, and he smiles at you in relief, before you both make the final preparations so that you can leave. 

 

*

 

The restaurant that you’re all going to is only a brief walk and a short hop in a taxi, but you can tell just from sitting next to Mycroft that he’s growing as nervous as you are as you both get closer to it. He begins to fiddle with his cuffs and shift his position. You feel sorry for him when he does it the first few times, but when he does it for what feels like the millionth you shift your own position and place a soothing hand on top of his. 

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs regretfully, turning his head to half-look at you. 

 

He does genuinely look so apologetic that it makes you let out a little breath and say, “It’s all right.” You rub at his hands, before you reach across to place a gentle kiss upon his cheek. “What are you worried about?” you ask him. 

 

His eyes flick to the taxi driver. You can tell that he doesn’t really want to voice his feelings in front of him. You squeeze at his hand. His eyes go back to you and he clears his throat, “Your parents I suppose. I don’t really want them to still not like me now that we’re together, and-and Sherlock I guess,” he huffs out a sigh. You rub at his hands sympathetically. “I would worry about Mummy embarrassing me, but nothing can stop that,” he confesses, looking at you. 

 

You lean over and peck at his lips. He pulls quickly away from you and his eyes flick to the taxi driver again, before he clears his throat. Something about how resistant he is to public affection makes you smile. “Don’t worry about my parents,” you tell him, “They said that they were going to try harder tonight.” 

 

 _“You’re_ worried about your parents,” he points out. 

 

“Yes,” you say a little impatiently, “But I mean don’t worry about them still not liking you. They’ll be mad if they don’t.”

 

Mycroft gives you a half-smile, but you can tell that he’s still anxious. 

 

*

 

Despite how resistant Mycroft is to public affection though he can’t resist being gentlemanly. He gets out of the taxi first, telling you to stay put until he comes around to your door because its started to drizzle. He then covers the process of you getting out of the car with his trusty umbrella, offers you his arm and takes you carefully across the road to the restaurant. Anticipation bubbles inside your stomach, but with Mycroft by your side you feel safe. 

 

Once you get underneath the canopy that covers the restaurant doors you let go of Mycroft and he closes the umbrella, before he holds the door open so that you can be the first one to enter. 

 

You hear a squeal as you do so and when you look across it is to see that your friends, family and Mycroft’s parents are all huddled around a long table at the back in the right-hand corner waiting for you. Alice and Sally-already getting on famously it seems-are looking up from where they’d previously been hunched over dishing out everyone’s drinks and beckoning you across. You smile and only glance back at Mycroft briefly, before you take a deep breath and make your way over to them. 

 

Mycroft smiles at the way that you’re walking into the situation confidently, before he places his umbrella in the holder provided and hurries after you. 

 

“F/N you look gorgeous,” Sally says, before she hugs you. 

 

“Oh thanks,” you say, looking a little embarrassed, before you receive a similar compliment from Alice and another hug. You move on to embrace your parents quickly, before you turn to Mycroft’s. “It’s so good to see you again Mr. and Mrs. Holmes,” you tell them, before you share a quick hug with Mycroft’s mother and shake his father’s hand. 

 

“Oh F/N, do call us Violet and Edwin dear,” Violet reminds you, and you straighten up with a sheepish smile. 

 

You then look around at the others. Molly, who you’d wanted to invite after she’d been so helpful to you in the morgue the other day, is smiling up at you, as is Mrs. Hudson. Mary meanwhile is wearing a very amused expression as she eyes John, who is sitting next to her and staring at you with his mouth agape. Feeling suddenly self-conscious and confused your eyes go to the other men. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and he’s frowning. His hand shifts against the cutlery. Greg’s mouth is also wide open, and his hand curls around the bottom of his glass of lager as he blinks profusely. Anderson’s eyes roam up and down you lingeringly. You swallow and shift your position. Is this what your past self had to put up with? You can’t believe that they've all been affected by you like this. 

 

Mycroft _can_ however, and he places a hand on your back to get you to look at him again. 

 

You do so with a smile, but you look back a moment later when Greg breathes, “Wow F/N. I admit that we were all getting a little mad at you taking your time to arrive, but, well, _wow…”_ he trails off, and you blush deeply, before you let out a little gasp of surprise when he gets up suddenly and very nearly sloshes his lager over the tablecloth. Sherlock shoots him a bit of a frown. “I could get you a drink if you wanted,” Greg says. 

 

Anderson stands up. “I’d be happy to get you one F/N. What would you like? Something fruity perhaps?”

 

You open and close your mouth. Your eyes dart to John who appears to be pretending that he doesn’t know what Mary, who has just nudged him with a knowing look on her face, is on about. Your eyes then go to Sherlock who is scowling moodily down at the tablecloth. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and your eyes automatically go to him. “I’ll get us both a drink F/N, since you’re here with _me_ after all.” His tone is icy and you raise your eyebrows at him in surprise. 

 

“I believe that she’s here with all of us brother. Unless this is some weird nightmare that’s playing in my head?” Sherlock comments before you can say anything. Mycroft frowns at him, as if he’s trying to remind him that he’s supposed to be on his best behaviour tonight. Sherlock meets the frown with cool eyes. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft looks back at you.

 

“S-Sure,” you say, before as he smiles grimly at you, you add, “I’ll come with you. I'm not sure what I feel like.” Mycroft does not protest and he leads the way across to the bar silently. “What was that about?” you ask him, whilst you’re both waiting to be served. A muscle twitches in his jaw, but he does not speak or look at you. “Were you getting jealous?” you press, not quite sure what to make of it if he was. 

 

The barmaid chooses that moment to come across to you. 

 

“I’ll have a glass of scotch and”- he looks at you. 

 

“Oh, erm, perhaps a glass of red wine?” you say, the alcohol being the last thing that’s on your mind as you look from Mycroft to the barmaid. 

 

She nods and is kept busy for a moment getting your drinks ready and sorting out change for Mycroft when he passes her a crisp ten-pound note from his wallet. 

 

You, still feeling a little awkward from what had happened before, shift your position and look back to the table. Your parents seem to be talking to Mycroft’s about something or another-you hope that they’re not asking Violet and Edwin too many questions-whilst Alice seems to be giggling with Molly and Sally, but everyone else’s gazes are on Mycroft and you. You swallow, shoot them all a bit of a strained smile and look back at the barmaid as John says something to Mary who’s looking concerned. The barmaid’s just put your drinks on the bar and Mycroft glances at you, before he passes you yours. You try to smile at him but he’s not even looking at you, and you turn to lead the way back to the table feeling glum. You sit close to the end of it with Mycroft sitting right at the end and Mary sitting on your other side. Your eyes go around everyone and you cast them all a brief smile, before you look back at Mycroft again. He’s looking down at the tablecloth and he seems to be in deep thought about something. Feeling concerned you nudge at him a little with your arm. He doesn’t seem to notice so you tuck a hand quickly underneath the table, place it on his leg and give it a quick squeeze. Mycroft shifts his position and clears his throat immediately, before he mumbles something underneath his breath. He gets up in the next instant and you eye him worriedly, watching as he heads off to the bathroom. 

 

“He should have gone, before he came here,” you hear Sherlock say dismissively further down the table. 

 

“Oh Sherlock, must you talk about such things at the dinner table?” Mrs. Hudson chides him. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mary asks, grasping at your wrist gently. 

 

You turn back to her a little jerkily to find that it’s not only her eyes that are on you now, but those of your parents, Mycroft’s, Sally’s and Molly’s too. “Oh, oh yes, I think so,” you begin in a low voice, before you focus on your arm and say, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He was fine when we left.”

 

“Probably the act of forced socialization,” Sherlock quips, before both Violet and Mrs. Hudson shush him. 

 

“I'm sure he’ll be back in a minute dear,” Violet reassures you, but you can’t help but feel upset. 

 

You’re still feeling such a thing when Mycroft returns when everyone’s meals are starting to arrive. You slide out of your seat, before he can sit down. His brow furrows and you become all too aware that some of the others are protesting behind you, saying that your dinner will be arriving soon. “I just need some air,” you tell them over your shoulder despite the fact that you know that they’re right. You even see a waiter coming across carrying your meal. But you’re in no mood to be sensible. You push past Mycroft without a word and make your way outside. 

 

Mycroft falters and looks at the others. 

 

“Go after her dear,” Violet advises him wisely. 

 

Mycroft looks to Greg. He’s in the middle of drinking his lager, but he gestures with his hand that Mycroft should follow Violet’s instructions. John and Mary make the same hand movement, and so Mycroft huffs out a breath, turns and walks quickly in the direction that you’d gone. He makes short work of the space with his long legs. 

 

You’re standing off to the side underneath the canopy of the restaurant. You’re leaning against the window and you’ve got one arm folded across your chest and one hand fisted to your mouth. Your shoulders shake a little and it looks to Mycroft like you’re trying to hold back tears. 

 

After swallowing he cautiously approaches you and stops beside you, leaning against the wall too and peering at you tentatively. 

 

“You didn't have to follow me. I'm fine,” you say tersely, dropping your hand down from your mouth rather violently. Mycroft doesn’t say a word. He knows that you’re not fine, and he knows that you know he knows such a thing too. You scowl across the street for a moment, before you add, “Your dinner will be getting cold. Your mother had to order for you because I didn't know what you’d like.”

 

“Yours will be getting cold too,” Mycroft murmurs, and you smile for a moment in spite of yourself. Such a thing soon slips off your face though when Mycroft says, “I'm sure you would have known what I like,” in an earnest tone. You swallow a couple of times. “I'm a little confused as to why you’d choose this exact moment to”-

 

“I just wanted to have a quiet night with everyone, and then we got here and you started acting all strange”-Mycroft swallows-“If you think that leaving me by the table with everyone and not knowing what the hell was going on between us, whilst everyone was looking at me like I should know such a thing was you making a good impression on my parents then you can think again,” you finish angrily. 

 

Mycroft, feeling guilty, moves to stand in front of you. “I'm sorry,” he breathes, “I know it wasn't the most sensible of things for me to do.”

 

 _“Yeah?”_ you mutter. “Well you’re going to have to do a lot more than that to make it up to me. Tonight’s difficult enough as it is, but I thought that you would have been the one person on my side more than anybody else.” You make a frustrated sound in your throat, before you attempt to push past him and head back into the restaurant.

 

He grasps at your wrist and pushes you back. You look at him angrily. “F/N you have to believe that I'm truly apologetic about all of this. I-I just, I couldn't help myself.” You pull your wrist away from him and fold your arms across your chest, looking down at the pavement. Mycroft steps closer to you and you look up at him. “What with the way they were all looking at you like that,” he elaborates, torn between revealing more and clamming up again. 

 

You can’t help but feel disappointed by him. You take a step back. “You should know by now that I'm only interested in you,” you tell him, before you move around him and head back into the restaurant. 

 

Mycroft looks after you, feeling frustrated with himself. 

 

“Oh F/N,” your mother says once you get back to the table, “Sally was just telling us some stories about work, really quite funny ones.”

 

“I'm glad that you’re enjoying yourself,” you say disinterestedly, sitting back down. You gaze at the food you no longer feel like eating. 

 

“You haven’t messed up already brother dear?” Sherlock comments, looking over John and Mary as Mycroft sits cautiously down next to you a moment later. “Oh well,” Sherlock turns his focus to you, “If you’re single again F/N then”-

 

“I'm not single,” you interrupt him coolly at the same time that Violet says, “Oh really Sherlock.”

 

There’s some uncomfortable shuffling of positions and clinking of cutlery against plates for a few moments. 

 

“Perhaps you could tell us more about your work then Mycroft?” your mother asks in between chewing another mouthful of food. 

 

You can feel Mycroft freezing up next to you, feel the exchanged looks that will surely be passing between your friends and you hover over your dinner, determined not to eat another bite of it until Mycroft answers. 

 

“Oh,” he looks up, forcing a smile at your mother, “It’s really nothing exciting. Just a minor”-

 

“Mykie works very hard in his position,” Violet interrupts and Sherlock suddenly looks very grumpy, “Don’t let his modesty fool you.”

 

Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft hasn’t got any modesty.”

 

“Well, I think we could have once argued that Mycroft doesn’t have a heart, but”- Greg breaks off, nodding and waving his fork at the pair of you. 

 

Mycroft and you both swallow. Feeling uncomfortable again you long suddenly for cool fresh air and even the damp rain against your face. Just _something_ different. As if Mycroft senses such a thing his hand goes to your leg suddenly. You start and look up at him. His blue eyes are upon yours. _Stay_ they seem to be saying. _Stay._

 

Before you can make up your mind your mother, frowning disapprovingly at the pair of you, looks at Greg as she says, “I'm quite curious as to what has made you feel such a thing about Mycroft’s heart.” She looks back to Mycroft at the exact same moment that Greg winces. “I would also like to know more clearly about your job. Since you are dating my daughter now you can’t expect me to be happy by the same vague answers that you gave us before.”

 

“I assure you,” Violet huffs, “My son has a heart and he has a very”-

 

“No disrespect but you would say that, as his mother,” your own mother interrupts as both she and Violet half-rise from the table. “If this man here”-she points at Greg-“Has reason to believe that Mycroft is capable of hurting my daughter or any reason to suspect that his feelings aren't genuine for her then”- 

 

“How dare you!” Violet’s eyes flash at the same time that Greg tries to make the situation better by mumbling, “Mrs. L/N, I really wasn't”-

 

 _“Enough!”_ you yell, standing up yourself and attracting some alarmed looks from the other customers. Mycroft starts beside you. Tears spring to your eyes. “This is exactly, _exactly_ what I didn't want from tonight. Why can’t you just all get along?” You let out a great sniff, and as tears start streaming down your face Mycroft grasps uncertainly at your arm. You pull away, swipe your own arm across your face and look back to your mother. “Mother I love Mycroft and you have to start accepting that”-Mycroft’s heart does a little flip-“Violet’s right. Mycroft works very hard at his job and takes it seriously. That’s all that you need to know. He doesn’t have time for any funny stories.”

 

“Thanks F/N,” Sally chimes in, making you snort in spite of yourself, and you allow Mycroft to pull you back into your seat by your arm. 

 

Violet and your mother sit down too, but your mother still doesn’t look satisfied.

 

“F/N is right, but that being said,” Mycroft says, placing his hand over yours on the table and threading your fingers together. Your eyes go from your joined hands to Mycroft’s eyes in amazement. “There are other things that I take seriously too. My commitment to F/N being one of them.” Violet lets out a sound as if she might faint. You stare at Mycroft. He looks at you as if to say, _‘Well, this is what you wanted isn't it? Besides what with our mothers acting the way that they are I didn't exactly have much choice.’_ Feeling both happy and proud of him you peck at his lips, cupping his face, whilst Mycroft’s hand snakes to your hair. 

 

“Well, thanks for putting me off my food,” Greg quips as the two of you pull away from one another. 

 

“Yeah, I think I’ll have to have another drink after that,” Anderson complains. 

 

You let out a nervous giggle, staring shyly at Mycroft. He stares steadily at you in return. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ Violet breathes, “I can’t wait for them to get married can you?”

 

“Mummy it’s a bit early for that,” Mycroft flushes. 

 

“Yes, I'm sorry to disappoint you Violet but I can’t see the relationship blossoming that far,” your mother says pompously.

 

 _“Mother!”_ you protest, whilst Mycroft stiffens beside you. 

 

“Why ever not?” Violet huffs, “They make a fine couple and I see no reason why”-

 

“F/N can do better,” your mother gets out bluntly. 

 

“Oh what?” you exclaim, before you can help yourself, “And Mycroft can’t?” you half-rise from the table and point your napkin at her, “I'm sure he could do far better and date someone who isn't so messed up, who hasn’t gone through memory loss and who doesn’t turn to drink and pills when things get tough!” Tears blur your vision as a silence fills the restaurant. 

 

“F/N honestly,” your mother says sounding shocked, “There’s no need to be making such a scene.” She looks around anxiously, forcing a smile at strangers that she doesn’t even know. “I have no idea what you’re going on about, but I'm sure that what you’ve just said is far from true. You've never drunk too much or ever relied on pills as far as I'm aware”-

 

“No I haven’t as far as _you’re_ aware because you’re always turning your head in the opposite direction whenever it so much as looks like I might be at fault for something. My whole life you’ve found it so much easier to blame other people for anything bad that occurs to Alice or me then think that it might ever be our fault.”

 

“F/N really”-

 

“Don’t ‘F/N really’ me mother, just stop acting as if I'm such a special prize when I'm not,” you say in a strained voice, before you sit back down with a thump.

 

Mycroft peers at you concernedly and swipes his thumb across your arm a couple of times in a comforting gesture. You nod, gurgling a little and feeling snotty and unattractive as you stare down at the rest of your meal. Mycroft discreetly slides his pocket-handkerchief out and hands it to you. You blow your nose on it gratefully. 

 

There’s a silence as everyone begins to go back to eating, but you’ve rather lost your appetite, and as Mycroft doesn’t touch his food either you can tell that he feels the same. 

 

“You’ll have to excuse us,” he announces finally, “But F/N and I are going to leave you all now. I'm going to take her home and then we’re going to begin to get over this dreadful evening. Perhaps you might like to think about the effect that you’ve had on your daughter over the pudding course Mrs. L/N?”

 

There are a couple of gasps and amused snorts from your friends, and even Sherlock looks grudgingly impressed with Mycroft’s words. 

 

Your mother however is not amused. “Now you listen to me,” she says, but Mycroft’s already standing up and gesturing that you do the same. You follow suit, not looking at anyone. _“F/N!”_ Your mother splutters in protest. 

 

A little sigh escapes your lips, before you go over to hug her robotically. “I love you Mother,” you say as your arms slip back from her, “But Mycroft’s right. You've done more harm to me than good this evening. For the rest of the time that you’re here I just want you to at least try to get along better with everyone.” Your eyes go to Mycroft’s parents. “Like I said earlier it was good to see you again Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.” They bow their heads respectfully to you and you just stand there, chewing on your lip and looking teary for a moment. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft murmurs. You snap back into life, before you go across to him.

 

He puts a delicate hand upon your back and steers you to the bar where he pays for your meals. He then calls for a taxi and the pair of you wait for it just underneath the canopy of the restaurant. Neither of you say anything, but when you’ve slipped inside the taxi and its begun to move off, still feeling teary, you breathe, “I'm so sorry about my mother.”

 

You lurch forwards a little and Mycroft, instead of saying anything, just slips a hand onto your knee and gives it a tight squeeze. You let out a watery gurgle and slip a hand over his. He twists his own away from your knee so that he can hold onto your hand properly. 

 

When Mycroft and you are both walking across the driveway towards the house once more underneath the light of a full moon, he stays reassuringly close to you and keeps his arm linked with yours, before he unlocks the door and guides you through to the kitchen. 

 

You place your bag onto the counter with a huff of breath, before you turn, slip into Mycroft’s waiting arms and end up dancing slowly together to a song that is only in your minds. 

 

“I meant what I said earlier you know, about being committed to you,” he breathes. You let out a little breath and Mycroft ducks his head down close to yours. Your hands are on his shoulders and his are upon your waist. You sway together.  
“I could not say this out loud in front of everyone before, but I can say it now. I will do my best to be there for you whenever you should need me. To listen and to try to understand. Is that clear?”

 

“Mm,” you mumble, feeling more intoxicated from his scent rather than the alcohol that you’ve drunk. 

 

Mycroft smiles, before his face grows more serious. “But I simply cannot understand what you told me tonight.” You stiffen and swallow. Your heart beats unevenly in your chest and you feel suddenly afraid of what Mycroft might be about to say. “About you not being worthy simply because you’ve lost a few memories”-

 

 _“More_ than a few”- you protest. 

 

“You _are_ a prize,” Mycroft murmurs, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. You shiver. “Your problems do not stop you from being the wonderful person that you are. Is that clear Miss. L/N?” You don’t answer, all you know is that your heart rate increases and your pupils flare at him saying that. “Is that clear?” he asks insistently, before he takes the tip of your ear in between his teeth and gives it a delicate little nibble. 

 

You let out a shocked gasp, before you laugh, “Yes! Yes that’s clear!” 

 

Mycroft smiles, and the pair of you start to sway together. You rest your head snugly against his chest, before he goes on to murmur, “Forgive me, but I can’t help but realize that its been five weeks since my heart attack.”

 

You draw your head back as your heart does a quick handstand in your chest. His eyes are dark. His hands move to your back and tighten there. You can almost feel the tips of his fingers against the warm skin at the small of your back that is not covered by the dress. You want more you suddenly realize. You want to feel the whole length of his large hand there. “It has,” you acknowledge, as you come to the realization that there’s really nothing stopping either of you now. 

 

His lips move to find yours. His eyes glance at you to check if there’s any resistance, but your eyes are already fluttering shut in preparation, your head tilted towards him, whilst soft breaths fall out of your slightly parted lips. When his lips meet yours they rub against them and caress them for a moment, making you let out a little moan. Satisfied Mycroft shifts his position to hold you against him more securely, before he moves in for a proper kiss. Your hand goes up to stroke at his hair and pull him closer in encouragement as his tongue slowly prises your lips open and snakes inside. You let out a little breath, which causes Mycroft’s whole body to awaken. 

 

“I love you,” he says into your mouth, before he can even stop himself. Even if he could have though he doubts that he would have. 

 

You wrench your mouth away from his with a gasp and look at him. 

 

Mycroft’s mouth opens and closes. His eyes shimmer in the light. “I know that I should have said it long before now, but I love you,” he elaborates, stepping closer to you. You rub at his cheek with your thumb in wonderment and stare into his eyes. Your lips find each other’s, and it’s not long before you’re gasping into each other’s mouth as tongues, teeth and lips all clash together. You attempt to push his jacket off in between the franticness of it all without success. His hands run up and down you in firm, swift movements, before he finally pulls away from you. “We don’t have to”-

 

“I want to,” you reassure him. 

 

Mycroft smiles and takes your hand, leading you upstairs. 

 

You shut the bedroom door behind you, locking out the world and all the earlier disappointment, before Mycroft pushes you gently and then rather firmly against it. You kiss fiercely again, gasping and writhing, before you finally manage to slip his jacket off. It crumples onto the floor and you clutch hard onto the dark blue braces that he’s been hiding all night as he diverts his attention to your neck. You moan, making Mycroft shift his position and pull back from you. He looks quite out of breath too. 

 

“Your heart”- you say, scraping your hand against his chest worriedly. 

 

“Is behaving absolutely as it should,” Mycroft growls as evenly as he can, tangling your hands with his and lifting them up, against the door, before he begins to worship your neck some more. 

 

You tilt your head back, letting out a little fluttery breath. 

 

Slowly more flesh gets revealed and the pair of you get closer and closer to the bed until, when a trail of clothes is upon the floor, the both of you finally fall down naked there. The cushions go flying and the chandelier lets out a tinkling sound above you as you both land and face each other sideways. Mycroft lets out a bit of a breath and you let out a bit of a laugh, before he draws one of his long legs up and simply strokes at your hair for a moment. Your lips meet gently again, before he slowly slides on top of you. He uses one of his legs to guide your body more securely underneath his. You let out a gasp and feel in a state of shock at having his body so completely over yours, but then you’re kissing again and making sounds of both pleasure and surprise as the both of you get more daring. The pleasure swirls inside you. It builds and builds with your hands clawing at Mycroft’s hair and shoulders as he kisses at your mouth, neck and makes gentle administrations with his fingers upon your breasts. 

 

 _“More,”_ you’re finally breathing, “Please more.” Your hand goes up against his cheek and strokes it encouragingly as he pulls back to study you. 

 

“It might”- Mycroft begins, but you shake your head. You don’t want to hear about how it might hurt right now; you just want this pleasure to continue. 

 

He pushes slowly inside you. 

 

“Oh God,” you say raggedly at the same time as Mycroft lets out a gasp of his own. Your eyes scrunch shut and your body arches forwards, taking more of him into you as your hands grasp onto Mycroft’s shoulders. He grunts as you bring him forward, and the pair of you remain like that for a moment, before he slowly begins to adjust and rock his hips. You pull a bit of a face, before you relax somewhat again as pain becomes a fierce, renewed pleasure. As your breaths grow more ragged and you arch up to meet his every thrust you’re mainly focusing on him and every part of him that is against you, but you also wonder how on earth you could have ever forgotten this. This is more than sex, even more than making love. It is like nothing that you’ve ever experienced and you know that no words will ever be able to summon up its true reality. Mycroft, his eyes almost shut and looking glorious as he finally loses control, increases his pace until your names burst from the other’s lips and intertwine in the air above you. 

 

Silence, apart from both of your jagged, uneven breathing, quickly falls. As Mycroft withdraws from you and moves off to the side, parting a little from you, but still staying relatively tangled, an owl hoots softly in the distance. 

 

*

 

You wake that morning to the sight of Mycroft’s body turned towards yours, the feel of him softly stroking at your hair between his forefinger and thumb, whilst his blue eyes hold a gentle light as they stare at you. You know in that moment that he has never looked at anyone else in that way before and it makes you feel incredibly special. 

 

“Good morning,” he breathes, leaning forwards and nuzzling at your nose briefly with his. Your heart swells with pleasure. 

 

“Morning,” you breathe as he pulls back from you, and as the pair of you just bask there contentedly you are aware that no matter what happened the last time-the worrying about Moriarty and getting hit by a car that shattered your memory-you have this now. You are able to wake up next to this man who you’re pretty sure is the love of your life and realize that, no matter what should happen, you both have the duration of the rest of your lives, however long or short that might be, to share together. As Mycroft stares and smiles gently back at you, you can tell that he feels the same. 

 

Everything, in that moment, is perfect. Perfect until your phone buzzes with a text from Sally. Once you check it and read it you let out a sigh. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asks.

 

You glance back up at him. “Oh yeah,” you say, lowering your phone and putting it on top of the sheet in between you. Mycroft’s blue eyes dart down to it for a moment, before they look back up at yours. You can tell that he knows you’re not being honest with him and you huff out a breath. “Sally said that our mothers sort of had words with each other again once we’d left last night.” 

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh and rolls onto his back. “Come,” he murmurs, gesturing that you should move closer to him. 

 

You smile a little and make to move your phone aside so that you can do just that, but it starts to ring in your hand. Mycroft lets out another sigh. “Sorry,” you tell him, getting out of bed, going across to the wardrobe and pulling out your dressing gown, before you slip it on. You sense that Mycroft’s watching you and you go across and chuck one of the cushions that had fallen off the bed last night playfully at him, before you answer the phone just as you leave the room. “Hello?”

 

“F/N, oh my God, you missed a hell of a lot of drama last night,” Alice says, barely breathing in between her words. 

 

You rake your free hand through your hair and slip carefully downstairs, heading for the living room. “Please tell me that Mother wasn't too rude to Mycroft’s parents?” you say apprehensively. 

 

“As soon as you left there was this massive silence. Then Greg and John both tried to say something around the same time to break the tension, but Mother started saying how impolite Mycroft had been to her, which he was by the way”-

 

You sit down on the settee and let out a bit of a groan. “He was just trying to”-

 

“Look. The whole of last night did nothing to warm Mother up to Mycroft. Anyway,” Alice interrupts, “Mother said that if anyone thinks that she’s going to take cheek from a man like that then they've got another thing coming. Violet took offence at that and started saying that Mycroft was decent. She kept asking Mother what she’s got against her son. Her husband, is it”-

 

“Edwin,” you fill in. 

 

“Yeah him,” Alice goes on, “Was trying to get Violet to calm down. Though he did tell Mother that she should try and give Mycroft more of a chance and that she might find that he’ll surprise her if she does. Father was just sitting there, and all Sally and I could do was just look at each other. The others were just eating. It was so awkward F/N, honestly,” she says with some relish in her tone, and you sense that its been an age since anything this interesting has happened to close family members. 

 

Still, being at the heart of it all, you can’t exactly share her enthusiasm. “What do you make of it?” you ask just as Mycroft pokes his head a little nervously around the door. You force a smile at him, and he, now fully dressed, comes over and puts a cup of tea down on the floor beside you. You squeeze his hand gratefully with your free one, before you watch as he leaves the room. 

 

“Well, honestly F/N, I do think Mother has a point.” You open your mouth. As if she senses you doing such a thing Alice goes on, “I know she overreacts at times, but you can’t really blame her. I mean it wasn't so long ago that you were heading off stroppily to your room, you could barely remember anything, you were pushing everyone away”-

 

“You were the one telling me not to,” you protest. 

 

“Yes, but I didn't tell you to go back to London and shack up with some guy that you barely know.”

 

You huff out a frustrated breath. “I _do_ know him. Just because I'm not telling everyone the ins and outs of our relationship”- 

 

“F/N, look, if the man makes you happy then I’ve got nothing against him. I just think that you could be a bit more careful about things. I mean you’re saying about not telling everyone the ins and outs, but do you really remember them to begin with?”

 

“He’s helping me”- you begin, feeling quite outraged.

 

“But all you’ve got is his word,” Alice protests, “He seems a little cold, distant to me”-

 

 _“No,”_ you interrupt, shaking your head, determined not to go down the route of mistrusting Mycroft again. You lower your voice, “Just because he’s not the sort of guy who does public affection doesn’t mean”-

 

 _“F/N,”_ Alice says, before she lets out a little breath, “I know you have strong feelings for him, and I know that this must seem very exciting for you and like you’re getting your life back on track now, but I just think you should try and use your head a little bit more”-

 

“Excellent choice of words there, well done,” you can’t resist saying. 

 

“Look is living with Mycroft now really”-

 

“The best thing for me?” you say, and your voice has to struggle to stay even, whilst your hand shakes. “Yes, yes it is.”

 

There’s silence. 

 

“You wanted me to be honest with you,” Alice finally begins.

 

“I know,” you reply curtly. 

 

“So perhaps you could listen to me when I say that what I think you should do right now is come home”-

 

“Alice I’ve been home long enough. I'm not wasting any more time there.”

 

“Mother is in a right state at the moment F/N. I don’t think you truly appreciate what she’s going through or just how worried she is about you. You might like to remember that we had to go and see you in your hospital bed after the incident”-

 

“The incident that you all knew about”-

 

“I didn't”-

 

“Well Mother and”-

 

“That’s another reason why you should come home. You need to properly come to terms with everything and realize that they did it to protect you”-

 

“I already know”-

 

“But I'm not entirely sure that you’ve put it behind you”-

 

“Like I said it’ll take”-

 

“Time, yes,” Alice goes on persistently, “But a good way of allowing yourself to heal more quickly would be if you were to come home, attend church and ask to find forgiveness”-

 

“Excuse me? You want me to go to the church of the man who helped cause all this”-

 

“F/N you’re trying to make us see Mycroft’s good qualities, but can’t you see Darren’s? He”-

 

“You still fancy him don’t you? After everything?” you exclaim. 

 

“I'm just saying that he’s not the bad person that you’re making him out to be. The role that he felt he had no choice, but to play in this incident of yours has really shaken him, battered him up. He’s been through a lot”-

 

“Well I don’t care,” you interrupt her, “I'm not coming home.”

 

There’s a slight delay. “I guess _I’ll_ just have to go home then,” Alice finally says. 

 

“What? But your life in Cardiff”-

 

“F/N I just can’t really bear to leave Mother and Father on their own right now.” She lets out a sigh and you can picture her running a hand through her hair. “In actual fact I’ve been considering moving back to the area for quite some time. After Mother broke down the night of your incident and told me everything that her and Father have been through I’ve been worrying and thinking that it might be the best thing.”

 

“Are you sure you’re not just going back there for Darren?” you ask with a bit of an edge to your tone.

 

“Oh F/N,” Alice says, “Darren’s not a bad person, no matter what you say. In fact he’s trying to be a good one. As am I.”

 

“What and I'm not?” you interrogate her. 

 

“I just think that if you could see yourself right now then you’d realize how selfish you’re being.”

 

You huff out an indignant breath. “Right,” you say, “I can’t listen to this any more”-

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“No, perhaps you should just try and remember what I’ve been through and be glad that I'm finally starting to find some happiness again instead of taking all that away from me”-

 

“I”- is all that your sister says, before you disconnect the call.

 

You put your phone aside, huff out a breath and bury your head in your hands. You let out a bit of a frustrated growl as you go on to run your hands through your hair. 

 

You hear the soft pad of footsteps. “F/N?” Mycroft’s questioning voice comes as he walks back into the room. 

 

“Sorry,” you say as you look up. “Thanks for the tea,” you wave a hand. 

 

“May I ask what that was about?” Mycroft asks, stepping closer and putting your phone down on the side table for a moment, so that he can sit beside you. 

 

“Just my sister being an idiot,” you say dismissively, forcing a smile at him and running a hand through your hair. 

 

He gives you a tight smile, before he looks away. “Are your parents still not”-

 

“No,” you shake your head. “They’ll come around,” you say, grabbing at his hand. 

 

It’s his turn to force a smile at you. “In any case,” he says, patting at your hand a little in order to get you to release his other, “I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave for work. I'm rather late as it is.”

 

You come out of your thought with a jolt. “Oh right, yes, of course,” you say, having almost forgotten about such things like work existed what with everything else. 

 

Mycroft gives you a rather distracted smile and stands. “Do you have any plans for today?” he asks, turning back to you. 

 

You look down and think about it. “Perhaps I’ll go and check if Sherlock has a case,” you shrug in the end.

 

Mycroft immediately frowns. “I'm not sure if that’s a good idea.”

 

Your brow furrows as you can’t really understand what he’s got against the idea. “It’s what I used to do isn't it?” you ask. “Help him on occasion with cases? Help _you_ sometimes if John’s blog is correct.” Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “The _Bruce-Partington_ missile project?” you remind him. 

 

Mycroft starts a little. “Yes, you were very helpful, but”-

 

“I did some digging and interviewed West’s fiancée. Was I not capable then?” you ask, raising your own eyebrows. 

 

“Of course you were,” Mycroft says, swallowing a little as you stand up and deliberately move, so that your body comes to bump against his. 

 

“Am I not capable now?” you nearly purr into his ear. Your hands go to his chest and roam across it. 

 

Mycroft swallows, before he stands back from you. “Of course you’re capable. I can’t deny that, especially after the way that you handled Moriarty, but, what you have to understand my dear is that no matter how much you’re still the person you were its really been quite an age since you helped on a case. Months in fact. Your reflexes are bound to be a little slower. I don’t want”- he breaks off when you step forwards, run your hands underneath the cuffs of his shirt and swipe your thumbs encouragingly against his pulse points. 

 

You bow your head and let out a little breath against his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

 

“I'm sure, but what I'm saying is that you don’t have to do that any more. Not now that you’re living with me. Why don’t you just focus on your scriptwriting?” Mycroft says, shifting his position, and you can tell that although he’s not directly saying such a thing what he’s really concerned about is your health.

 

“But to do that I need ideas,” you say in a low voice, “And what better way of getting them then going out on a case again?” You twist your fingers around his wrists. Mycroft steps back so that he can look at you. He’s sure that after everything you must have enough ideas for a lifetime buzzing about in your head, but he can tell just by your face that there’ll be no stopping you from doing this. “I just need a distraction,” you say, stepping forwards and fiddling with a couple of the buttons on his shirt. “Surely this is a better one than alcohol or paracetamol?” you ask him desperately, before you step back from him. 

 

Mycroft looks like he doesn’t know about that, but once again he can sense your determination. Finally he huffs out a breath and moves forwards so that he can hold you delicately in his arms. “Promise me that you’ll be careful then?” he asks, kissing at your hair, before he nuzzles it. 

 

“I promise,” you breathe, leaning back, before you swoop up to kiss him. 

 

*

 

Although Mycroft physically leaves you for work not long after it’s like his mind is still with you, and he sits in the back of one of his usual black cars worrying about you, thinking about your family and feeling a great sense of indignation at the way that they've taken against him so firmly. He knows that they’re just worried about you, and that they've got every right to feel such a way towards him after every awkward encounter he’s had with them, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to prove them wrong. Determination swirls inside him, _and,_ feeling suddenly fixed upon an idea, he tells the driver to head for an up market jewellery store instead. 

 

*

 

It’s odd, Mycroft thinks as he leaves the store about an hour later with an engagement ring firmly inside of his pocket, a long time ago when dating you had seemed just like a fantasy-a pleasant thing to spend the occasional time at night wistfully considering, but nothing else-he would have sworn that if he ever asked someone to marry him it would be after a lot of thought. After a lot of agonizing and nights spent wide-awake. He almost feels pleased that its turned out this way instead. That it just feels like something he is meant to do and about how easy a choice it seems. He heads to work with a smile, feeling content. Tonight he shall ask you to be his wife. 

 

As the day goes on the engagement ring sits as a pleasant reminder inside his pocket of what is to come, as he delves through paperwork and is forced to talk to irritating people both on the phone and face to face. Something about the initial determination he’d felt that morning though about how it was something that had to be done and something that couldn't possibly wait any longer, something that would surely show your parents in an action just how committed he is to you, fades a little it is true, but it still feels something he’s sure that he’ll do. He feels satisfied. 

 

When he gets home however, full of both resolve and a slight anxiety about what he must do, he begins to lose his nerve when you walk down the hallway towards him with red eyes and mused hair, before you fall into his arms. 

 

“Mother rang,” you say in a muffled voice against his jacket. “We had another argument, Why can’t she just be happy for me?”

 

Mycroft opens his mouth. He doesn’t want to propose to you when you’re so upset, but at the same time, if he could just put a smile back on your face again-

 

Your hands tighten upon his back. You snuffle against him. Mycroft’s courage wavers. “Did you help my brother today?” he asks, even though he feels sure that he already knows what the answer will be. 

 

You shake your head. “I went around there for a little while and sat with Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock had already gone out.”

 

Mycroft senses that what had really happened is that you’d lost your nerve as much as he is now losing his. It’s too soon. You’re not ready to have a load of wedding planning on top of everything else. You've got your family to still deal with and you’ve barely moved in with him. What on earth had he been thinking of subjecting you to all that extra pressure right now? He feels ashamed of himself. He’d wanted to do it more, he thinks; to perhaps help prove a point to your parents than for the reason he should be doing it. 

 

You lean back from him. As you peer up at him, blinking a little, he squeezes at your arms encouragingly. You smile at him in a watery fashion. “Mycroft I love you,” you say earnestly.

 

Mycroft thinks that he does not deserve it. 

 

*

 

The engagement ring sits heavily inside his pocket, whilst he takes over the cooking of the dinner you’ve made a start to, and as he rubs at your shoulder and leg soothingly as you sit on the settee together later on. Even when he eventually gets around to hiding it, it weighs profoundly on his mind all the same. Keeping him awake because part of him, although he senses that he should be giving the idea more thought, still wants to propose to you. He thinks that he might do it tomorrow, but of course nothing has really changed or developed and so he does not. The same pattern occurs the next day. 

 

A week drifts by and then another, and the ring fades in his mind a little until he stumbles across it one night and it makes him dwell on it deeply all over again. He thinks that the time might be more right now. You've been living with him longer after all, and though you still get upset after speaking to your family now and again you’ve started helping Sherlock once more and doing more writing. You seem on the whole more settled, happier. 

 

With the tentative decision made then that he will once more try again and ask you to be his wife, it’s not long, before he decides that he wants it to be special. He can’t imagine asking something of such importance to you in a public place, and he decides that perhaps you wouldn't appreciate such a thing either after everything, so it has to be something special at home. An elaborate meal seems the most obvious route to go down, and perhaps a bit of pampering. The only problem is how to pull such a thing off when the majority of times, even when you’re on a case, you’re home before him. In the end Mycroft decides that he’ll just have to seize the chance as and when. He’s not really one for being spontaneous if it can be helped. He’d rather that things followed a strict schedule, but remembering that, that’s how you’d gotten together in the first place he supposes that it is rather apt. 

 

After a couple of almost proposals and awkwardly trying to cover things up when you either come home too early or he bottles it, he finally gets a proper chance a couple of weeks later towards the end of February. You text him whilst he’s still at work to say that the latest case with Sherlock has been wrapped up, but that you’re going to go for a quick drink with Sally, before you come home. Knowing that this is as good an opportunity as any, Mycroft wastes barely any time in packing up his things, getting Anthea to cancel a late appointment and hurrying home, buying some expensive shampoo and bath foam on his way along with some flowers. 

 

He’s kept busy for a time, and it’s not until seven o’ clock is rapidly approaching that he gets the chance to finally step back and admire his handiwork. The dinner’s on low in the oven, ready and waiting for you. The oven’s spreading its warmth out right across the kitchen, which is filled with a low light. The table, now bedecked in a white tablecloth, deep burgundy place mats and shiny cutlery wrapped in napkins looks like it belongs in a restaurant. Especially with the thin vase of roses at one side of the tall, lit candle that forms the centrepiece and the slender vase of daffodils on the other. Mycroft chews on his lip and uses the glass of the transparent, sliding door to check his reflection. Goodness he looks red! He pats down his hair and brushes down his white shirt, straightening his deep red tie and adjusting his tie pin. The engagement ring sits expectantly in his trouser pocket. He’s just wondering if he looks smart enough and whether he should change into a more expensive black jacket when he hears you at the door. He starts, panicking a little when he hears you huffing out an angry breath, before you make for the stairs. This is all going wrong! You’re supposed to come down the hallway towards him, he’s supposed to welcome you home and guide you to your seat. He’s then meant to pour you some wine, which you will begin to drink, whilst he gets out the dinner. Over the meal you’ll then have a general conversation about each other’s days, before he’ll slowly move the topic closer to one where he can launch the springboard of his proposal from. That’s how things are supposed to play out. “My dear?” he calls, his voice coming out in a wavery fashion. 

 

About halfway up the stairs you turn back to him and let out a bit of a sigh. “I'm sorry,” you say, placing a hand to your forehead, whilst you keep the other on the banister. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. I know you’ve probably cooked and everything, but I was just going to have a bit of a lie down.” You pause and blink at him, barely taking in how smart he’s tried to make himself look for you or the pungent aroma of food that’s wafting from the kitchen. Suddenly something clicks in your head about the expression he’s wearing. “It _can_ keep can’t it?”

 

“Um,” Mycroft shifts his position, “That’s rather the thing I'm afraid. I’ve cooked a bit of a special meal for you.”

 

You eye him, your hand shifting a little against the banister. “It’s not your birthday is it?” you ask, tilting your head. 

 

“No,” Mycroft says, smiling a little awkwardly. 

 

Your brow furrows as you straighten your head. “It’s not mine…” you trail off, thinking about it. You come down a step, so that you’re closer to him. “No one’s coming around for dinner are they?” You waggle your eyebrows. “To do with your minor position?”

 

“No,” Mycroft smiles in a strained fashion, before he confesses, “I rarely use the house for entertaining.” He shifts his position and automatically moves closer to you. “I just-I thought that it might be nice for us to have a special meal together every now and then, whether that’s here or in a restaurant,” he says, not wanting to give the game away. 

 

“Oh, well, that’s really sweet of you,” you come down another step and lean forwards a little, so that you can place your hands on his shoulders and give them a quick squeeze. “But I do-I do feel really bad. My sister’s been on the phone, and I know that you’ll probably think that this is an over-reaction or something, but she’s dating Darren now and I can’t stand it. It’s not like I'm completely surprised. She fawns on about him every time that she’s on the phone and she’s been trying to make me see that he’s not as bad as I think for weeks and that he’s been struggling with everything. Apparently she’s been helping him through it all,” you pull a face, “But I mean…can you believe it? How could she even consider dating him, let alone go through with it, after what he did? If you knew that this man was capable of hitting your sister down in a car you wouldn't go out with him would you?” 

 

“Um, no,” Mycroft gets out a little awkwardly. He does not say that everyone is capable of bad things. 

 

You smile a little in spite of yourself at his uneasy expression. “Anyway,” you breathe, “Maybe we could do this special dinner thing another night? I promise that I’ll be better company then.” You shoot him a quick smile, before you begin to lean away from him and turn around. 

 

To your surprise Mycroft grasps at your wrist and you swivel around. He looks up at you apologetically, but his voice is rather firm as he says, “I’ve made quite an effort.”

 

 _“Oh,”_ you say, once again surprised. “Well-Well I suppose I could try and eat a little bit then,” you relent. 

 

Mycroft smiles, looking more satisfied, and helps you the rest of the way downstairs, before he grasps at your hand tighter and leads you to the kitchen. He lets go of your hand as soon as you enter and you let out a little gasp at the sight of everything. 

 

“God, you really _have_ made an effort. Now I feel guilty,” you admit, shifting your position, before you look at him. 

 

He lets out an indulgent chuckle. “If you try your best to enjoy it now then I assure you that it will make up for all your earlier reluctance.” He smiles as you look at him and comes across, taking your hand and drawing a chair out for you, which you sit down smartly upon. 

 

You watch as he efficiently brings a bottle of wine across in the next moment, before he pours it into the waiting glasses. 

 

“Some nice red,” he murmurs, and you think that you detect an odd nervous quality to his tone. 

 

“Mmm,” you say, as you eye him, before you sip at the wine. It really is nice, but Mycroft’s left you with an uneasy feeling. 

 

You watch as he shoots you another tolerant smile, before he hurries across to the oven and wipes his hands on his trousers as he goes. He seems a little clumsy as he dishes the meal out, even spilling a little white sauce over the side of a plate. He makes a sound of frustration and half-glances over at you. You quickly divert your eyes and pull your glass of wine up to your lips. Mycroft makes a harrumphing noise and wipes at the edge of the plate with a dishcloth. You don’t look over at him again until you hear him bringing the dinner over, humming a little as he walks. You have to smile at the sight of the dishcloth over his shoulder as he carries the two plates. 

 

Mycroft is too suddenly on edge to appreciate the sight of you doing so, and he lays the plates down with a bit of a frown upon his face, before he settles opposite you. 

 

“Mmm God Mycroft this is so good,” you announce after savouring the first bite.

 

Mycroft looks up. “It’s all right?” he checks. 

 

“Yes,” you say more fervently and Mycroft’s eyes dart down again. You study him, and, sensing your gaze, his eyes flick up. He gives you a forced smile, but you notice that his face quickly slides into thought again as he looks down. You swallow and your hand tentatively goes to cover one of his. “I guess, what I'm wondering,” you begin as his eyes meet yours, “Is why you’ve cooked me such an amazing meal and why everywhere looks nicer than usual?”

 

Mycroft swallows and withdraws his hand. “It’s like I said”-

 

“This feels like _more_ than just a special meal,” you push, before you quickly feel bad and look down. 

 

When you look up again it is to find that Mycroft’s now leaning back. He wipes his hands on the napkin, before he looks at you consideringly. Suddenly he seems to decide upon something and he leans forwards and grasps at your hand upon the tablecloth. Your heart hitches in your chest as he begins to stroke the back of it with his thumb. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, “I know that it has not been a particularly good day for you, and that seeing your sister dating Darren is something that you need time to come to terms with, but this is something that has been on my mind for a while. In fact I feel simply that I cannot wait a moment more. I will simply burst if I do.” He smiles a little sheepishly at you and you swallow. “F/N,” Mycroft lets out a breath and squeezes at your hand. Your own heart feels suddenly as if it might explode just from the anticipation. “I know it is rather soon. I know that things are still not settled between your family and you,” he lets out a bit of a heavy sigh, “But my dear, nothing would give me more pleasure”- he breaks off, knowing that he’s skipped ahead too soon and that there’s more things to say. He squeezes at your hand. “I feel sure that in time, even if we have to wait the longest of moments, that your family will give our relationship their blessing and come to see how committed I am to you. I feel sure too that this will be a positive step in that process. But,” he releases another breath, “More than that you have to understand that though I am not one to believe in destiny and fate and such things, I am firmly coming to the conclusion that, for whatever reason, we are meant to be together.” He holds your hand more persistently, pressing the tips of his fingers to your knuckles as he leans forwards. “That something perhaps inside ourselves is pushing us together and refusing to allow us to part.” You feel rather choked with emotion and let out a little gurgle at the same time that Mycroft lets out a little determined breath. He smiles at you, pleased to have gotten this far, before he draws out a small, black box from the inside of his jacket and places it upon the table. Your body quivers as Mycroft tightens his hand upon yours and says, “Miss F/N L/N, will you allow me to join our two families together and consent to be my wife?” He flips the box open, revealing a delicate sliver ring that has a beautiful encrusted diamond in the centre and chinks of f/c around the ring itself. 

 

Tears spill out of your eyes for a moment and you bite at your lip as you look down at it, before you look back at him. “Y-Yes!”

 

 _“Yes?”_ Mycroft questions as you get up and move around to him. You nod several times, crying even harder. “I know it’s early,” he says as you slip your arms over his shoulders, “But we can have a long engagement if you wish or”- you cut off his words with a kiss. “Mmm,” Mycroft breathes. 

 

You draw back from him with a watery giggle. “I love you.”

 

“For that you have made me very happy,” Mycroft says genuinely, squeezing at your hand as you stroke clumsily at the sides of his hair and giggle some more. His eyes meet yours for a moment, before he lifts up your hand and slowly slips the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly. 

 

As you see such a thing you ask, “You did your thing again didn't you?” grinning a little. 

 

“I did my thing, yes,” Mycroft replies, his eyes sparkling and you let out a bit of a laugh. 

 

You rub at his shoulder with your hand. “Mother’s going to be furious I expect,” you say off-handedly, letting go of him with a bit of a sigh as you drift back around to your seat. 

 

“I don’t wish to cause even more”- Mycroft begins. 

 

“No,” you say, shaking your head at him. “This is right, this is _so_ right. We've waited long enough to get to this point as it is. I don’t want to wait even more,” you get out in between tears, grasping at his hand. “Besides, I'm so happy right now that I don’t even care.” 

 

“Let’s just hope that this is the beginning of her acceptance then,” Mycroft smiles, and you chink your glass with his to show that you’re in full agreement. 

 

As the rest of the meal passes the pair of you keep looking down at the ring that now adorns your finger as if you can both barely believe what has just come to pass, which you can’t. 

 

Then, once the meal is done and your wine glasses are empty, your hand is just making to reach to turn the tap on by the sink, so that you can start to wash everything up when Mycroft’s hand goes to your wrist. You look across at him. 

 

“Perhaps we could leave the washing up for a little while?”

 

You jerk back. “Of course, I'm sorry,” you say, waving your hands as Mycroft lets go of you and feeling rather flustered, “Ignore me, I'm still in a daze.”

 

Mycroft turns you so that you’re in his arms and gives your hair a brief, but fierce caress, before he kisses you. Your lips-well-practised by now-come together easily, yet the feel of his rubbing against yours so firmly still makes your head spin and leaves you feeling rather breathless. You moan a little and he cups at your cheek, panting a little bit against you. You gasp as he pulls back from you, eyes you and strokes at your hair. His hand slips down to take yours. 

 

You follow him as he leads you upstairs, your body thrumming with the anticipation of him being inside you soon. He takes you however not to the bedroom, but to the bathroom door. You look at him confusedly. 

 

He lets out a bit of a chuckle. “Perhaps later my dear,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly going all low and seductive. His hand flicks underneath the sleeve of your top and strokes at the skin there, sending an eruption of goose pimples throughout your body. He looks at you wickedly as your pupils blow wide and you know that there’s no ‘perhaps’ about the thing at all. “For now however,” he goes on more casually, withdrawing his hand, “I was thinking that you might perhaps allow me to pamper you by running a hot bath? I’ve brought some special things for the occasion and there is a range of tea-light candles that I can place around to make it feel nicer.”

 

Your lip quirks upward as you look at him. “Will you be joining me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“If you should allow it,” Mycroft chuckles, before he kisses at your hand mischievously. He almost bats his eyelashes at you as he straightens up again and you laugh, playfully swatting at his shoulder.

 

“All right,” you concede, before you place your hands dramatically upon your chest as you say, “I could drown after all.”

 

“Then your mother would definitely kill me,” Mycroft quips. 

 

Your face darkens. “No mother talk tonight,” you tell him, looking down. 

 

“All right,” Mycroft acknowledges, tilting your chin upward, before you share a pleasant kiss. 

 

The bath water’s running in the next few moments. Mycroft carefully gets the candles set up and dots them around. He also readies the towels for later and playfully points out that he’ll now have to put in a new order for you to reflect your new surname once you get married. 

 

You both slowly undress, glancing a little at each other, and, in your case, giggling a little. 

 

Once the water is ready Mycroft helps you in first, before he slides in carefully behind you. 

 

You shuffle a little and adjust, whilst the bath creaks. You make a few sounds of contentment as your body comes to rest down in between his legs and your head falls upon his chest. The feel of him beneath you and the sight of his long legs and feet so protectively close to your own makes you smile. 

 

“Your heart doesn’t hurt from me doing this?” you ask worriedly as the thought occurs to you, and the side of your cheek along with your nose brushes against the hairs on his chest as you peer around to look up at him. 

 

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, sounding perfectly content as he brushes a strand of your hair back from your face. 

 

You let out a breath and snuggle back down against his chest. Bubbles and water slosh over the pair of you as you do so. 

 

For a while Mycroft’s damp and bubble soaked hands just weave through your hair, whilst you lie there, watching the flames of the candles glimmer in the semi-darkness. 

 

“What are you thinking?” he finally asks. 

 

“That if it was just you and I in this bathtub for the rest of eternity then I’d be happy,” you tell him, letting out a little breath. 

 

There comes a silence for a moment and you wonder if Mycroft has heard you. You’re just about to say something else when he lets out a little, fluttery breath of contentment as his hand flicks against your hair again. He bends his head down and purrs, “I agree,” right into the shell of your ear, “Imagine the fun that we could have.”

 

You glance up at him curiously as a smile begins to form on your face, before you scramble around properly when you see his dark eyes. Your lips part and your eyes fix on him questioningly, before you straddle him as you move in for a kiss. 

 

Mycroft hums pleasantly against your lips. You let out a little breath and then his hands explore down your back and sides, whilst one of yours cups the back of his head to you. 

 

You barely pull apart, before Mycroft’s twisting you carefully around, so that he’s the one on top of you. Some of the water sloshes over the side of the bath, making the flames of the candles quiver in delight, and you let out a little breath, feeling vulnerable, but ready to let him dominate you if that is what he wishes. Mycroft’s eyes scrape against yours, before he kisses you. 

 

You spend a couple of moments arching up against him with your arms flung around his neck, whilst he ravishes your mouth, before he finally draws away from you. He eyes your swollen lips in satisfaction for a moment, before he helps guide you back around. You settle against his chest and close your eyes in pleasure as his soapy fingers first come to caress at your breasts, before they begin to trail circles and rub across your stomach. You wriggle against him a little at some of his touches, shuddering when his hand pushes your hair back and his lips roam to your neck. He holds you steady against him, whilst you breathe hard. 

 

“I think I’d like to wrap this up soon,” Mycroft murmurs seductively, and you nod dumbly, before you go on to wash one another. 

 

The feel of Mycroft’s hands washing your hair, whilst his mouth alternates between kissing at your neck and whispering words of love into your ear nearly sends you shuddering again, and you are more than ready when you both finally clamber out of the bath, rub each other gently dry and proceed to the bedroom to make love long into the night. 

 

*

 

Your friends react excitedly to the engagement. Although you suppose that you can’t really count Sherlock’s eye roll and muttered, incomprehensible breaths when he sees your ring, as him being excited. But even Sally, who says, ‘Well I can’t say that after everything this is much of a surprise,’ seems happy as she hugs you. Mycroft’s parents too are overjoyed and Violet already has a host of ideas as to possible venues and colour schemes. So far so good then, but you hadn’t really been expecting any problems from them. 

 

You tell Alice on the phone about it all the night before Mycroft and you head to Wales to break the news to your parents. She, now living in a rented house close by to your mother and father, is tentatively both happy and excited for you. You swear her to secrecy, before the pair of you discuss how anxious you are about breaking the news to your parents. _That_ you feel nervous about. You still feel nervous the following day, a Saturday, and you fidget restlessly in the car. You almost regret not taking the helicopter because of the shorter journey that it would have provided you with, but you’d felt that arriving in such style would have only served to infuriate your parents even more. You can tell that Mycroft’s uneasy too because of the way that he keeps fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt and with his tie. You grasp onto his hand in the end and hold onto it tightly. If you hadn’t been so anxious about what was to come then it might have been a relief to finally get there shortly after eleven, and yes, the early start hadn’t exactly done wonders for your mood either. 

 

You lead Mycroft to the cottage on that dry, but windy February day as the clouds drift gently in the blue sky above you. 

 

You knock on the door. “It’ll be fine,” you say, telling yourself more than Mycroft. 

 

He lets out a bit of a dry cough and raises his hand to cover it, before he fiddles with his cuffs again. He nods and swallows profusely. You let out a bit of a sigh. 

 

The door finally opens to reveal your mother who is holding a dishcloth and a bowl in her hand. Her eyes brighten when they see you, before a cloud scuds over them as she looks at Mycroft. 

 

“Mother,” you breathe at the same time that Mycroft says, “It’s a pleasure to see you again Mrs. L/N,” and holds out his hand. 

 

“It’s a shame that the same can’t be said to you Mr. Holmes,” your mother sniffs, ignoring his hand completely, before she looks at you.

 

 _“Mother,”_ you reprimand her, before you ask, “Are you going to let us in?” awkwardly as you shift your position. 

 

Your mother looks displeased by the idea of inviting Mycroft inside, but opens the door wider to you both nonetheless. 

 

Mycroft and you shuffle inside, you leading the way as Mycroft places a delicate hand upon your back. 

 

Your father is sitting on the settee reading a newspaper, but he abandons it when he sees you and comes across, joining your mother. “Back here again are you?” he asks. 

 

You nod and swallow. Mycroft’s hand tightens on your back. Yet you feel bubbles of joy rise up inside you nonetheless at being able to say the words, “Mother, Father,” as you look between them, “Mycroft and I are getting married.”

 

Your father’s lips part in surprise and your mother lets out a long breath, before she turns to the kitchen table and places both the bowl and dishcloth down there. 

 

Your heart sinks and you feel something waver inside you despite the fact that you’d expected such a reaction to happen more than any other. 

 

“I’d like you to leave,” your mother says to Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft and you exchange an anxious glance, before he steps forwards. “Mrs. L/N, I know that we don’t exactly see eye to eye, but I assure you that you have nothing to worry about. I fully intend to”- he breaks off when your mother lets out a frustrated sound and waves her hands. 

 

“You should have come to ask for our permission,” your father says, stepping forwards and eyeing Mycroft suspiciously. 

 

You link your arm with your fiancé’s. “I don’t need”-

 

“We would have said no,” your mother says. 

 

 _“Why?”_ you ask, squeezing Mycroft’s arm desperately. 

 

Your mother rakes a hand through her hair and looks at you in astonishment as if she can scarcely believe that you’ve asked such a thing. “If you’re really going to make me say it then it’s because this silliness has gone on for long enough F/N. Using this fake romance that has blown up in both of your minds simply to ensure that you could ease back into London life and because this man seized his opportunity to take advantage of you is quite one thing, but marriage…marriage is a scared act F/N”-

 

“Mycroft never took advantage of me and our romance isn't fake, I _do_ love him”-

 

“Grow up F/N!” your mother yells at you. 

 

“What? Like Alice you mean? Cut my life short, come back here and throw my life away?” you ask, feeling enraged. Mycroft shifts his position uncomfortably next to you and tries to escape your grip, but you don’t let him. “Whilst we’re on the subject why is Alice allowed to go out with Darren? And why aren't you making any protest against it? He’s already proved that he’s got the capability of being violent”-

 

“Oh F/N really, I thought we were trying to move on from all of that”-

 

“Not when it’s still relevant,” you huff. 

 

“Okay,” your mother nods, “If you think that, that’s still relevant then how about you acknowledge the fact that you’re completely wrong about Alice throwing her life away? She’s going to find herself on a path where one day I'm sure her love with Darren will lead to marriage and children. Her relationship will be a strong and stable one. Unlike yours. You’ll find yourself struggling through a long and messy divorce, thinking about how your old mother was right and feeling glad that she’s got the decency not to say, ‘I told you so.’ All because you got carried away and rushed into it.”

 

“How dare you,” you breathe, choked with emotion, “How dare you make assumptions about”- you break off, tears spilling down your face. 

 

Mycroft looks at you worriedly, before he finally manages to wriggle out of your grasp and step forwards. “Mrs. L/N”-

 

Your mother slaps him hard across the cheek, so hard in fact that you hear a crack. Mycroft staggers back a little and grasps at it. 

 

 _“Mother!”_ you cry, jumping towards Mycroft and placing one hand on his arm, whilst the other reaches towards his cheek. 

 

“’M fine,” Mycroft swats your hand away. 

 

“That’s for stealing my baby away from me,” your mother pants, her eyes dark with fury. You open your mouth. “No matter the agenda of the man who came here I refuse to believe that there was absolutely no grain of truth in his words. You are a dangerous man and I know that my daughter’s going to get hurt if she stays with you.”

 

You eye her calculatingly. “Mother, I'm going to take you on a walk to church,” you tell her. Mycroft shifts his position next to you, readying himself no doubt for the movement, but you look back up at him and breathe, “Stay here until we get back.” You nod at your father, indicating that Mycroft should try and talk to him. 

 

“All right,” Mycroft agrees reluctantly. 

 

You peck him on the lips and squeeze at his arm, before you lead your mother outside. 

 

“Sit down,” your father tells Mycroft, nodding to the small kitchen table. 

 

Mycroft hurriedly makes to do so. 

 

Your father switches on the kettle and Mycroft swallows. 

 

*

 

You don’t speak to your mother again until you’re leading her down the aisle of the church. “Mycroft and I love each other,” you look back at her, “That man who visited you is no friend of ours, neither is the one that you saw me confronting in this church.”

 

“But F/N,” your mother says, grasping worriedly at your arm. 

 

“Mother just listen to me,” you say, turning to face her. You look off to the side. “I know-I know that Mycroft must seem strange to you. That he must seem quite cold and mysterious, but he’s warm with me. He loves me.”

 

“That man”-

 

“That man who came around wanting to pollute your minds did so because he wanted to hurt Mycroft”-

 

“But Mycroft must have”-

 

“Mycroft did nothing Mother,” you shake your head, “Nothing aside from try to protect his brother, just like you’re trying to protect me right now.” Your mother’s mouth closes. You look at her sympathetically. “But Mycroft’s one of those people you don’t need to protect me from Mother. I'm safe with him.”

 

Your mother looks down and lets out a bit of a sigh, her eyes skimming across the hard floor. “But how do you know that?” she asks as she looks back up at you. “Do you even know what he does?”

 

“I know,” you say, choosing your words carefully, “That he has a fairly important role in the British Government.” You wisely decide not to speak of just how much influence Mycroft has. 

 

Your mother still looks anxious. “I know that what you have with him seems important to you right now F/N, but I'm sure that he’s not the only man in London who would take an interest in you. There’s no need to settle for less,” she grabs at your hands, “There are others out there. Why that Gregory, he seems nice”- she breaks off deliberately, before she cups at your cheek with her hand. 

 

“Mother,” you breathe softly, “I'm not interested in Gregory or any one else. Mycroft’s the only one for me.” Your mother’s face crumples, her hand slips off your cheek and she looks once more again to the floor. “This is part of me growing up Mother,” you shrug, and she looks back at you apprehensively. “If Alice can go out with Darren and perhaps have a future with him then why can’t I with Mycroft?”

 

“I can see that nothing I'm going to say will change your mind right now. But F/N”-she looks at you seriously-“Are you really certain about all this? Divorce is a lot harder to go through than a break up you know.” 

 

You nod, your eyes blazing with determination. “Mycroft and I won’t be getting a divorce Mother.”

 

Your mother looks at you for a moment as if to say, _‘We’ll see,’_ but finally she lets out a bit of a breath and says, “In that case you must have a church wedding.”

 

 _“Mother,”_ you say, squeezing at her arm, “I want Father and you to be involved in the planning of this, of course I do, but I don’t think that either Mycroft or I would feel comfortable getting married inside this church.”

 

Your mother draws herself up with a frown. “I won’t live to see either of my daughters getting married in a registry office F/N.”

 

 _“Mother,”_ you say as patiently as you can, squeezing at her hands. “This is my life, my choice. Mycroft and I haven’t even started thinking of venues yet, but if we do decide to get married in a registry office then I want you to respect that.”

 

Your mother looks at you. She still looks unhappy, so you give her a hug to try and compensate. 

 

*

 

“I know that you probably think that my wife and I are just a couple of doddery, nosy people who don’t know how to let their children go, but we’re just trying to ensure that they have the best chance in life and that they make the most sensible choices,” your father says, as he sits down opposite Mycroft once the tea is ready, “F/N’s been through a lot in the past few months, and I know that’s in part due to us, but I’ve never seen my wife so worked up…”

 

“I can understand that,” Mycroft murmurs, shifting his position, whilst your father squints at him. “But too,” he goes on bravely, “To try and ensure that F/N has the best life you have to let her make her own decisions and trust her. Trust me too when I say that I have absolutely no intention of hurting her.” He looks down at the table as your father gazes at him steadily. He senses that he’ll have to show more of his heart if the man is to properly believe him. He trails a circle into the table, slowing his movement as he attempts, “F/N’s incident upset me.” He clears his throat. “I was of the belief that things were at that point going quite well between us. I'm sure that you can easily believe Mr. L/N”-he glances up at your father-“That there are few people in this world who understand me. I would count F/N amongst those few and more than that I would count her as the _only_ person who truly understands me.” He looks back down at the table. “For whatever reason she seems to have seen something that is worthy inside me of being loved. She sees the man that I am capable of being. When she lost her memory”- he breaks off and rakes a hand through his hair. “Well, I had to go through months of uncertainty, of not knowing whether she would be able to both find and acknowledge that part of her that felt those things about me again, so if my proposal to her seems sudden, I can assure you that it is only that way because we've lost months of time already, and I do not wish to lose even more.” He looks up at your father. “Please believe me when I say that my intentions towards F/N are the most honourable.”

 

There’s a sudden noise at the door and in the next moment your mother and you tumble inside. 

 

Mycroft swallows and eyes your father nervously, wishing that you could have delayed your return for just a few moments more as he does so. 

 

Your father stands and Mycroft follows suit. Your eyes go between them anxiously, and Mycroft tries to smile at you reassuringly, despite the fact that he doesn’t know if anything has now changed in your parents’ view of him. 

 

“I have spoken to the boy. He seems genuine,” your father announces. 

 

Mycroft’s face transforms into an expression of surprise. 

 

 _“Father,”_ you breathe happily, before you rush across to hug him. 

 

Your mother joins you all. She looks at Mycroft as you draw back from your father. “I have also come to see that, whilst I'm still not sure if I approve wholeheartedly of this union, I have little choice right now, but to give you more of a chance.” Mycroft’s lips part. “Don’t let me down.”

 

Mycroft bows his head to show that he’s both heard and understood and your heart surges with hope. 

 

* 

 

Three months later and you’re already sick of all the wedding planning. Trying to keep both Mycroft’s parents and yours happy is driving you crazy. Your friends also seem to have numerous opinions on what you should and shouldn't do. Whilst Sherlock is irritating you further by grading your stress levels out of ten every time you see him. The only slight relief you have from everyone’s opinions is when Mary gives birth to a healthy baby girl-Grace Watson-towards the beginning of May. 

 

You find yourself letting out a sigh one warm night at the end of May and pushing the duvet a little further off you. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft murmurs, switching on the bedside lamp and rolling onto his side to look at you. 

 

“Do you ever just want to run away somewhere and get married in secret?” you ask. Mycroft eyes you in concern. You roll on your side towards him, before you say more persistently, “I mean at the end of the day isn’t this supposed to be about us and the love that we have for one another? When did it become less about that and more about favours and what type of napkins and all this meaningless junk that in years to come no one will even remember?” 

 

Mycroft swipes his thumb across your arm soothingly. “It’s still about us my dear.”

 

“Is it though?” you ask, glancing at him again, before you pull away and roll onto your back. For a moment a silence rings out, before you roll back towards him and shuffle closer. You work your hand through some of the hair that’s on his chest. “Couldn't you figure something out?” you say in the needy voice that Mycroft’s come to know is the one that you use when you’re desperate to get your own way. “Cancel the date we've chosen in November and use your not so minor position to get us an earlier one?”

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a snort and kisses you briefly. You roll onto your back and he half-covers you, before he looks at the way that you’re staring up at him imploringly, giving him your most alluring smile along with eyes that shine with a playful kind of hope. He chuckles. “You’re forgetting that, that would surely mean me getting killed by your mother, and then what would you do Miss L/N? You’d never be able to have any fun with me ever again.” 

 

A smile toys on your lips and you lean up to kiss him. 

 

*

 

So, things don’t improve, but somehow, with Mycroft’s support you manage to hang in there, all until your wedding day on the sixteenth of November dawns at a registry office in the heart of town. You’d chosen the date because, what with it being the anniversary of your incident and all, both Mycroft and you had wanted to replace those dark memories with much happier ones. The venue might not be the prettiest of places, but it’s small and intimate, perfect for you. Whilst something about getting married in the city where Mycroft and you had discovered one another again feels right. To your surprise both Mycroft’s mother and yours behave themselves on the day, even crying during the service and hugging each other afterwards. Mycroft meanwhile looks the most handsome you’ve ever seen him in his dark suit, silver waistcoat and autumn evoking coloured cravat, and as he gently moves in to kiss you at the end of the vows you couldn't feel any happier. He, conscious of everyone watching, pulls away a little earlier than you’d like, causing you to go in for a second kiss, which makes everyone laugh and Mycroft look at you with a soft, loving gaze as you finally pull away from one another. The day, despite the drizzle outside, is one of the happiest ones of your life where both family and friends come together in a truce. 

 

*

 

It’s about a week before Christmas when everything changes again. 

 

You’d spent the evening at a Christmas party that was being held at 221B. Mycroft hadn’t gone. You’d been feeling a little odd during the party. You hadn’t been able to define it, it was just like something hadn’t been quite right. Even what you’re sure was a perfectly good wine had tasted funny to you, and so it’s of little surprise to you really when you have to get up during the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and be sick. You stay there for a moment feeling dizzy and light-headed. 

 

When you get back to the bedroom it’s to find that Mycroft’s switched the light on and is now sitting up in bed with folded arms. He studies you with a serious look upon his face. 

 

“Probably just something funny that I ate at the party,” you try to reassure him with a shrug, before you slip back into bed again. 

 

He makes a sound of acknowledgement and switches the light off.

 

*

 

The next morning you’re still feeling a little out of sorts. Still, whilst you hope that you’re not coming down with a cold this close to Christmas you try and carry on normally all the same. You do find it hard to concentrate on your latest script though. You’re supposed to be editing it, but you just find yourself reading the same line over and over. It’s almost a relief when the doorbell rings, despite the fact that you don’t really feel in the mood to entertain any one. 

 

To your surprise it’s Mary. She eyes you seriously for a moment, scanning you. Sometimes you forget that she works for Mycroft, but this is definitely not one of those times. “Mycroft thought that I should pop around,” she explains. 

 

 _“Mycroft?”_ you question, feeling confused and pulling a bit of a face as you turn around and begin to make your way to the living room. A possible reason hits you as soon as you reach the settee and you turn back around to face Mary. “If this is just because I was sick last night then you can tell him that I'm fine. He should have just called me if he was worried. I don’t need to be babysat.”

 

Mary smiles at you a little awkwardly and gestures that you should both sit down. After you’ve done so you eye her suspiciously. Mary squeezes at your hands for a moment, before she withdraws them and momentarily rustles in her handbag. “Mycroft thinks you should take this,” she says, pulling out a pregnancy test and placing it delicately in your palm. 

 

You let out a bit of a choked gasp. “I-I can’t”- you say, your eyes going from the test to her. 

 

Mary squeezes at your free hand. “Mycroft seems to think that you are,” she says. Your face pales. “Sherlock seemed quite convinced of it last night too. I had to stop him from saying anything.” Your mouth opens and closes. Your head spins. “The wine last night?” Mary pushes, “And the sickness? They’re all signs F/N.” She pauses. “I bet if I were to ask about your period then that would be a possible point of evidence too.”

 

“I-I thought it was just late,” you splutter, “Thought that it was just going to come over Christmas to be annoying.” You feel stupid about the whole thing now. 

 

Mary smiles at you. You look away, swallow a couple of times and try to think about this more clearly as she tightens her hold on your hand. “Whatever the outcome I'm going to be here for you, but I think you should go do that now.” She nods to the test. 

 

You take one deep breath and then another, before you nod and go upstairs. 

 

*

 

You return a little later feeling shell-shocked. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mary questions, standing up from where she’s been sitting on the settee texting on her phone. 

 

You let out a bit of a choked breath, before you nod. She strides across to you and sweeps you up into her arms a moment later. 

 

“I'm not ready to be a mother,” you say fretfully as she strokes at your hair. 

 

“I felt the same way,” she reassures you. “Being a mother’s hard, but when it comes down to it I'm sure you’ll find that you react naturally enough.” You nod, but you still feel scared. “Now,” Mary says weightily, holding you back from her, “Who’s going to tell Daddy? You or I?”

 

“Me,” you say, letting out a bit of a choked giggle at Mary calling Mycroft ‘Daddy,’ and swiping at your face where tears have fallen. 

 

Mary smiles and guides you back to the settee. You pull out your phone and call Mycroft. “Mycroft,” you say breathily once he picks up, “I'm-I'm”-

 

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he interrupts, disconnecting the call without a further word. 

 

You can’t deny that you feel hurt, but you try and give Mary a smile nonetheless as you lower the phone from your ear. 

 

“It’ll be okay,” Mary rubs at your arm, reading you as easily as Mycroft would have done. 

 

*

 

When Mycroft finally arrives home at a quarter-to-six you’re torn between running down the narrow hallway and throwing your arms around his neck as you seek his support or staying in the kitchen where you’ve been tentatively looking up things about pregnancy and trying not to get too freaked out about it all rather than making a start on dinner. It hadn’t really worked, and you’ve found yourself rubbing away tears more often than not. In the end you just stay in the kitchen and keep your eyes stubbornly fixed on the laptop screen [now showing reams of information about recommended foods] whilst you listen as Mycroft pads towards you. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft murmurs, stopping by the door. You clear your throat to show that you’ve heard him, but don’t say anything. He lets out a bit of a dry cough that makes your stomach tighten. “I'm sorry that I had to cut our call short. Anthea had just come in with a wad of documents and I didn't really feel that it was the most appropriate conversation to be having with her there.”

 

You nod, as excuses go you suppose it’s a good one. But then something comes over you and you feel angry. “I guess I just wish that you’d said something about it to me last night. Mary’s a good friend, but she shouldn't have known about the possibility before I did.” Your hands tighten into fists upon your lap. 

 

Mycroft begins to step closer towards you, but he stops when you glance up at him briefly and he sees the way that your eyes flash. “I understand that, but I did not want to worry you when there was no need. What with the suspicion only having come to me last night, knowing that you’d panic I chose not to mention it. It would have been quite a hassle at any rate to check whether my thoughts were right at such an hour. As for Mary I believed that what with her having gone through the process herself her presence might have been more reassuring to you than mine.”

 

You let out a breath. “All that’s well and good. But I wanted you,” you confess, finally getting the courage to look up at him properly. 

 

“I'm here now,” Mycroft murmurs, before he comes to crouch down beside you. His eyes go to yours, before they dart to your stomach. Tentatively he places a hand over it and rubs at it with his fingers. 

 

You smile at him in a watery fashion, grab at his hand and ask, “You do want this baby don’t you?” and though you try relatively hard to keep your voice even Mycroft still detects the fear that’s there nonetheless. His lips part, but before he can reply you get out in a rush, “I’ve been worrying about it all day.” You attempt a smile. 

 

“Oh my dear,” he says, rubbing soothingly at your hand, “Of course, of course I want this.”

 

You look at him, wanting to believe him so much, but feeling too emotional to be sure. In the end all that escapes you is a choked gurgle. 

 

Mycroft makes a shushing sound and carefully moves you until he’s the one sitting on the chair and you’re sitting on his lap, your arms around his neck and your legs off to the side. “Whilst it is true,” Mycroft acknowledges, “That I never thought you’d ever be pregnant with my child, just like I never realistically expected that we’d actually start dating, I confess that though I'm naturally concerned I'm happy too.” You share a brief kiss, before you rest your foreheads together. “But Mrs. Holmes I promise that no matter how scared I get I will not abandon our child or you.”

 

“I know,” you breathe, tightening your hands upon him and letting out a fluttery breath. 

 

*

 

When you finally tell everyone a few weeks later Violet is just as ecstatic as she had been about the wedding, Edwin is cautiously happy, as are all of your friends, whilst your family, as you would expect them to be by now, accept the news with a grudging reluctance. 

 

*

 

A few months later, after a somewhat turbulent pregnancy, Lia Guinevere Holmes arrives in the world.


	9. Lia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Motherhood is not the simplest of tasks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for all of your support! :D It really does mean a lot to me! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

Lia Guinevere Holmes is the strangest baby you’ve ever known you think as you look down at where your six-month-old daughter rests inside her wooden cot. She looks normal, _beautiful_ in fact, and you feel this great rush of love for her every time you think of her, not to mention this massive need to be constantly near her. She’s got your e/c eyes and hair, but Mycroft’s shaped face, nose and lips, and you think that you detect a trace of the Holmes cheekbones that might come out when she gets older too. Yet you can’t deny that there’s something strange about her that worries you. She seems oddly quiet for a baby. You remember how Grace Watson, who had not been a loud baby by any means, had still screeched and clamoured for attention whenever you’d gone to visit John and Mary or seen her strapped to John’s chest. Lia in contrast is so quiet that you’d be forgiven for forgetting her existence sometimes if it wasn’t for the certainty that you feel inside you about her doing so, not to mention all the baby things that have taken over the second spare room at the back of the house. Her eyes slide open, but even though you’re right above her they only focus on you for a moment, before they quickly move off to the side. You frown down at her. 

 

There comes a soft movement by the door a moment later and your head jerks upward. 

 

Mycroft pads into the room and you let out a soft breath of relief. 

 

“Ah, I was wondering where my two favourite people were,” he murmurs, looking similarly liberated to see you. He moves across to the left to join where you are by the pale yellow and white wall and peers into the cot. The bed’s been taken out of the room and to the right is a nappy changing area, a big plastic box with cream and nappies and such things and a white chest of drawers with delicate sketches of flowers on that contain all of Lia’s clothes. Various toys lay scattered on the floor between it all on the dull brown carpet. As he looks at her though Lia’s eyes only move to her father for the briefest of moments, before they look away again. 

 

Mycroft frowns a little and finally you can’t keep the fear that’s been building up inside yourself just within you any longer. “You don’t think that she seems a little quiet do you?” you ask, phrasing the question carefully and making sure to keep your eyes on the edge of the cot rather than on either your husband or daughter. 

 

Mycroft’s face flickers with something, before he bends over the cot even more and says, “She’s just trying to be good for her Mummy, aren't you Lia?” He tickles her. You let out a fond breath without being able to help it. But she doesn’t even try to grab at his hands. She just lies there completely still. You let out a bit of a fluttery breath, feeling disappointed. Mycroft pulls back, looking at you out of serious eyes. “You believe that there’s something’s wrong?”

 

“Yes,” you say, folding your arms, “And I know that you do too. I’ve seen the way that you look at her sometimes when you think that I can’t see you. As if she’s a puzzle that you can’t figure out.”

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “As true as that is,” he begins, “It’s also true that neither of us know much about how babies are supposed to behave. I know that we've both done some reading, but”-

 

“Babies are _supposed_ to cry Mycroft,” you mutter, still not happy. 

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft acknowledges with a tilt of his head, “But then again everyone’s different. Apparently I was a quieter baby than Sherlock”-

 

“A _volcano_ would be quieter than Sherlock,” you say dismissively. Mycroft pulls you close and strokes at your hair. You know that he’s trying to distract you and you eye him suspiciously. You know that you don’t look your most attractive right now. You may have lost a lot of your baby weight, but you’re pretty sure that your hair smells more of Lia’s spit than anything remotely pleasant. Certainly not anything to make him want to be close to you. “You don’t happen to have any idea as to why Lia’s behaving this way do you? Only I’d rather know if you did.” Again Mycroft huffs out a breath. _“Mycroft?”_

 

“One or two,” he confesses, before he kisses at your hair. “Nothing for you to worry about though.”

 

“Mycroft I’d”-

 

_“Shh,”_ he shushes you, slipping both of his hands onto your shoulders. “Do you know why you’re feeling so strongly right now and what your feelings are being borne out of F/N?” You look at him. “Tiredness,” he answers. “Between trying to get that script in on time and looking after little Lia here”-he breaks off to give his daughter a fond smile. Your heart flips-“You haven’t been taking proper time for yourself.”

 

“I'm fine,” you say in a strained voice, afraid that he might push for hired help if you show him just how tired you actually are. You’re adamant that you don’t want a stranger looking after Lia. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head, looking at you concernedly. “Why don’t you go out with Sally this evening?” he asks. 

 

“She’s working,” you murmur, running a hand across your face. 

 

“Well go and pay Mrs. Hudson a visit then,” Mycroft suggests. You look to Lia uncertainly. “She’ll be fine,” Mycroft murmurs, rubbing at your arms soothingly. 

 

You look back at him. “You said yourself that there’s something wrong with her.”

 

Mycroft lets out a breath. “I meant for tonight F/N. She’ll be fine _tonight.”_ Your expression wavers as you look at him. “I know we’re both tired,” Mycroft relents, “But I'm sure that what a lot of this is really about is just us adjusting to her, just us getting worked up over perfectly normal behaviour because we’re stressed about other things and we want so badly for everything to be all right with her. For her to be our light and never anything else.”

 

You eye him, still not convinced. He stares at you maddeningly. “All right,” you say, stepping back from him and raising your hands as if to admit defeat. “I’ll go and see Mrs. Hudson.” You half-glance at him. “Anyone would think that you’re trying to get rid of me,” you comment, only half-joking. 

 

“Not at all my dear,” Mycroft says, closing the gap between you and kissing you on your cheek. 

 

You nod, before you kiss him briefly on the lips for reassurance and leave the room. 

 

You don’t stop worrying though, even when you’re with Mrs. Hudson, and she sends you home in the end, knowing that’s where you truly need to be. 

 

When you get home though everything’s fine. Mycroft’s sitting in the living room with his laptop on his lap and the baby monitor off to one side, giving the perfect impression of the in-control father, whilst Lia’s sleeping soundly upstairs. 

 

“Back early?” Mycroft comments knowingly as you move to sit beside him with one leg beneath you. You cup the baby monitor in between your hands. 

 

“Sorry,” you murmur, staring down at the monitor with a frown. “I want you to have some one-on-one time with her too. I just can’t stop thinking.”

 

“She’s fine my dear,” Mycroft murmurs, slipping one arm around your shoulders, whilst he balances the laptop on his knees. He kisses at your hair. 

 

You snuggle into his side and he places the open laptop carefully down on the floor, before he puts his arm around you, holding you close. 

 

“You’d tell me if it was anything really bad wouldn't you?” you ask when Mycroft begins to stroke reassuringly at your hand. “You wouldn't keep something _that_ important from me?” 

 

“I don’t even know what it might be for certain yet,” is all that Mycroft will say. 

 

You spend the rest of the night fretting, alternating on being with Mycroft and checking on Lia. Even when you go to bed it takes an age, before you finally drift off to sleep. 

 

*

 

You wake around twenty-past three to find that the other side of the bed is empty. Your heart jerks in panic and you scramble upward into a sitting position. Every pound of your heart seems to cry, _‘Lia.’_ Had she awoken and you hadn’t heard her? You disentangle yourself clumsily from the covers and make to leave the room, whilst soft breaths fall from your mouth. You head to Lia’s room, your emotions wavering. 

 

Both your heart and the frantic pace of your mind calm down though when you see a soft light spilling from the room and hear Mycroft’s voice saying tenderly “…I know you’re trying to be good, but you’re making Mummy worry, and that’s not good for either one of us.” A watery gurgle escapes you and there’s a slight pause. You wonder for a moment if Mycroft has heard you, but then he goes on, “Let us try something new then. Perhaps tomorrow you could give Mummy a little smile, or a gurgle? She’d like that. It would make me happy too. Just something, which would let her know that you’re all right.” A longer pause comes. It makes you worry, and the snuffling noise, which follows it makes you do so even more. You move forwards and peer through the gap in the door. Mycroft’s sitting on the windowsill directly opposite you, holding Lia in his arms. He’s hunched forwards, the tip of his long nose brushing against her covered stomach. He draws his head back and lets out a bit of a gasp. You’re startled to see that his eyes are full of tears. “You see I couldn't bear it,” he says, beginning to brush at the few wispy strands of her hair with fevered fingers, “If you weren’t all right. If the something that I suspect might be wrong with you were to become a fact.”

 

“M-Mycroft,” you gurgle, pushing the door open at last. You find that tears are streaming down your own face. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft starts, before he sniffs and hurriedly adjusts his position so that he can swipe his tears away with the hand that’s not supporting Lia’s head. He does not want you to see him cry. 

 

“W-What’s wrong with her?” you ask, going across to them. 

 

“Nothing,” he says, adjusting his position as you sit down on the windowsill beside him, grasp at his arm and peer down at your daughter. She’s still asleep. He glances at you quickly, before he looks down at her. “She’s beautiful isn't she?” he asks, swiping at her hair again. It’s evident to you that he’s trying to hold back tears and you tighten your grip on his arm. 

 

“Yes,” you murmur, “But perhaps we should get her checked out some time? Just so that we know?” Mycroft swallows a couple of times and nods, before he hands little Lia to you. You cradle your daughter close to your chest for a moment, before you kiss delicately at her face. “To bed little one,” you murmur, standing carefully up, and Mycroft places a hand on your back to support you, before you take your daughter back to her cot. She shifts a little uncomfortably after you’ve lowered her inside and you watch her for a moment, before you turn back around. 

 

Mycroft has already left the room. 

 

You swallow, glance at Lia one last time and make to leave the room, switching the light off as you go. 

 

Mycroft’s in bed, and you walk quickly across so that you can join him. The bedside lamp provides the only light, but it is enough for you to be able to see that he’s been crying again. The fact that he’s doing so frightens you into just staring wordlessly at him for a moment. 

 

“I'm sorry my dear,” he murmurs, seeing that he’s scared you. He wriggles closer and pulls you into his arms. “I didn't mean to give you a fright. I don’t know what came over me.” He strokes at your hair. 

 

As you cling onto him and just listen to his breathing you want to tell him that it’s the great love that he feels for Lia, which had made him react in such a way, along with perhaps the fear of anything disrupting your happy family unit, but you sense that the statement had been a largely rhetorical one and that Mycroft already knows all those things. Instead you ask, “Are you going to tell me what you think is wrong with our daughter?” Mycroft stiffens and you feel him swallow against you. “I want to understand,” you inform him softly. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath and pulls slowly away from you. You stare at him. He looks down, preferring to trail a circle into the front of your pyjama top then look at you. You place your hand gently over his, before you move it to your heart. The feel of it makes Mycroft swallow, before he withdraws his hand with a sigh. You look at him concernedly. “Do you remember when you remembered about Sherlock falling from the roof and all the pain that it caused you?” he asks. 

 

“Of course,” you say, and your own body can’t help but stiffen. 

 

“Well,” Mycroft says, his eyes darting up to yours, “I feel perhaps that you might hate me as strongly as you did then if I go on to tell you all this.” He looks down nervously. 

 

You swallow, feeling uneasy. “I'm sure that’s not true,” you say, trying to stay positive, but you grab at his hand for further reassurance nonetheless. 

 

Mycroft swallows and adjusts his position. “You must know that I have always endeavoured to make you happy and keep you safe, but I fear that”-

 

“Mycroft _please,”_ you interrupt, squeezing at his hand and telling him to get on with it. 

 

Mycroft swallows one last time, before he blurts out quickly, “I fear that Lia has a condition that she will have to live with for the rest of her life and that it might be my fault.”

 

You swing upwards into a sitting position. Mycroft rolls onto his back and slowly his eyes move to meet yours. Your head feels dizzy and you can hardly believe what he’s just said as you look at him. Suddenly the bedroom’s not the safe haven that its always been. It feels too small, _threatening._ “Does this condition have a name?” 

 

_“Autism,”_ Mycroft breathes, finally swinging upward himself. You let out a little breath. “I'm so sorry F/N,” he says apologetically, caressing anxiously at your arm.

 

Your brow furrows. “But you don’t”-

 

Mycroft looks down. “I don’t have the condition myself, no. But I read that there’s a higher risk of babies with older fathers developing autism. The complications that happened in your pregnancy are also suggestive of such a thing, as is the way that Lia’s been behaving of course.” You let out a whoosh of breath and your vision blurs. You clutch at Mycroft’s arm as you sway to try and steady yourself. “F/N?” Mycroft breathes worriedly, shifting closer to you. “I'm so sorry my dear,” he says, stroking at the tips of your fingers, whilst his heart beats unevenly. “I should never have allowed you to fall pregnant. We should have been more careful, I”-

 

“This is not your fault,” you get out, tightening your hold upon his arm. 

 

“Did you hear what I just said?” 

 

_“Yes,”_ you breathe, feeling like you might be sick, “But I'm sure that there could be a whole host of reasons for why Lia might have autism. There are loads of older fathers. You can’t tell me that all their children have autism?” You huff out a breath, trying to focus hard on what you have to say. “Secondly, we don’t even know that she _has_ got it, so we just need to try and keep cool heads about it until-until we know for sure. I’ll take her in for a check-up tomorrow, or as soon as I can book one, and see if we can get some tests done.” Mycroft still looks anxious. You shift, crawling out of the duvet to sit on top of it in between his legs, before you begin to rub at his back when he leans forwards. Mycroft lowers his head to your shoulder, before he places a kiss there. “But no matter what happens I don’t want you to go blaming yourself for this all right? This is not your fault.” He lets out an incoherent gurgle and you rub harder at his back, determined to make him feel better. 

 

* 

 

Test after test is done. Tests that make you worry endlessly, whilst you wait for an age and ask yourself if you’re really doing the right thing in subjecting Lia to all this. Mycroft joins you whenever he can and you find that his presence always makes you feel better as he rubs at your hand soothingly and helps to get you through it all. 

 

Finally, a couple of months after Lia’s second birthday, and when it is an age since you’d first had that late-night conversation with Mycroft about the possibility of autism, the pair of you get called in one afternoon to see the diagnostician, Dr. Andrews. 

 

You get sent into Andrews’s messy, cluttered office to wait. A bookshelf takes up the left side of the office and books of all shapes and sizes stand in a jumble amongst it. A desk with a mess of papers and a rather small, pathetic plant along with a computer on the side of it lies just in front of you. A rectangular window that’s partly open lies to the left of that, whilst the paint on the white wall to the right is chipped and peeling. A painting of a red London bus in front of Big Ben hangs crookedly there. Mycroft huffs out a little breath as the receptionist closes the door behind you. You can tell that the untidy room is doing little for his nerves. 

 

“Everything will be fine,” you tell him, holding Lia in your arms and carefully going to sit in one of the chairs that are in front of the desk. Mycroft makes a sound of assent in his throat and joins you. 

 

The wait feels like forever. Your heart beats unevenly, your mind whirs and Mycroft’s leg jiggles anxiously up and down. It’s no surprise really when Lia’s face begins to crumple and she begins to make distressed, gurgling sounds. You try and bounce her up and down a little on your lap, but she just shakes her head and waves her chubby hands into the air. She cannot be contented any more than Mycroft and you can right now. 

 

“Give her to me F/N,” Mycroft says softly, and you glance at him to see that he’s looking at Lia with a concerned look of enquiry about his face, before you carefully make the transfer. Lia momentarily settles down as her father gently holds her, but it’s not long, before her face begins to crumple again and she begins to bawl rather loudly. You look at her sympathetically, wondering if you have a toy in your bag that might be able to soothe her, but just as you’re about to check for such a thing Mycroft says, “There, there Lia it’s all right.” He shifts her up and down a little. Lia still doesn’t look happy. Mycroft looks around and his eyes catch upon the painting. “What about a little song then hmm?” Your lips part, but before you can do or say anything the soft voice of your husband singing, “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round,” comes, whilst he bounces Lia up and down upon his lap. You can’t help but grin and Mycroft looks up to smile rather sheepishly at you. 

 

“Sherlock would love to see this,” you tell him. 

 

“Don’t you dare,” Mycroft warns as you playfully slide your phone out of your pocket. You grin and stick your tongue out at him, before you tuck your phone away again. “Did you hear that Lia?” Mycroft asks, carefully tickling at his daughter’s stomach with his fingers. “Your Mummy wants to embarrass me.” Mycroft and you exchange another fond smile. 

 

Lia however is not impressed with the song _or_ her parent’s antics. Her face crumples even more and she waves her chubby hands. “No! No!” she cries when Mycroft begins another round of _‘The Wheels on the Bus…’_

 

Mycroft looks concerned. “You don’t like buses?” he asks her with his head slightly tilted to one side. 

 

“She’s got her father’s expensive taste,” you quip, which makes Mycroft smile and you can tell that he feels both reassured and in more of a playful mood because of such a thing. 

 

_“Ah,”_ Mycroft says, a gleam in his eye, “Then how about: the wheels on Daddy’s car go round and round, round and round, round and round?” 

 

You let out an amused snort. Lia too seems to be in a better mood. Her whole face lights up at her Daddy’s silliness and she says, “Yes! Yes!” whilst she claps her plump hands.

 

Both delighted and relieved Mycroft starts off another round, and you move in closer to your daughter’s level and stroke at her middle as you start singing softly too, “The wheels on Daddy’s car go round and round, round and round, round and round.” Lia giggles a little. Mycroft and you manage to share a doting glance with one another, before there comes a sudden clearing of someone’s throat from behind you. Mycroft and you both start and look around. It’s Andrews. Mycroft quickly clears his throat with a faint blush on his face and passes Lia back to you. You swallow and grow more serious yourself as Andrews greets you both and settles behind his desk. The temperature in the room seems to drop and all the warmth leaves you. You’re back to worrying about Lia and her possible autism again. Your attention fixes upon the doctor. 

 

Andrews is so baby-faced that it makes the dark brown beard he’s sporting look rather odd, like a child pretending to be one of the three wise men at Christmas time. His green eyes look serious however and you know from your previous contact with him that he’s more than capable. 

 

“Right, now this is probably not the news that you’re hoping for,” Dr. Andrews begins, and Mycroft’s hand tightens upon your shoulder, whilst your own grip becomes firmer on little Lia who’s sitting more happily upon your lap. “But after tracking Lia’s progress and taking into account what signs she’s been giving, the only conclusion that can be drawn is that yes, she does fall on the autistic spectrum.” 

 

You let out a bit of a gasp. After months worth of reading, fretting and feeling the heaviness grow in your heart as you became more and more convinced that Mycroft was right it’s hardly the biggest surprise to you, but hearing the fact that Lia _does_ have autism and it being confirmed is still like receiving a punch to your heart. 

 

Mycroft’s hand slips off your shoulder and you look at him. He’s looking off to the side and his face looks full of tension. A muscle in his jaw flexes and you see that his eyes are wavering with something that’s more like indignation than sadness.

 

“Don’t look like that,” you tell him as your heart squeezes. Your voice comes out a lot more evenly than you’d feared it would. He lifts his head up and glances at you. You shift your hold on Lia and grasp at his hand. “This is not your fault. I'm to blame too, along with God knows what else. I’ve read that relying too heavily on paracetamol might be a factor.” Mycroft’s face flares with anguish. “We’ll get through this,” you tell him, determination shining in your eyes, “Lia’s going to be fine.”

 

*

 

Oddly enough when Lia’s seven it feels for the most part like your prediction has come true. 

 

It’s correct that she’s a little quiet and aloof around other people, only trusting a select few with Uncle Sherlock, Mary, John, Mycroft’s parents, your parents and Alice who is now unfortunately married to Darren along with little Grace Watson being particular favourites. Grace’s brother Jake, who’s the spitting image of his father and two years younger than his sister, unfortunately hasn’t gone down as well and is often shunted aside whenever the two girls come to play together. Thankfully however Grace seems to have taken to Lia just as much as your daughter has done to her, and she’ll often be found guiding Lia through the rules of a new game patiently or sticking to her side protectively like glue. Not that she’s exactly had much choice in the matter since Mycroft’s been paying for Grace to go to the exact same private school that Lia is despite the fact that they’re not in the same year as one another. But ever since he’d discovered how much Lia had seemed to idolize Grace he hadn’t been able to resist making the proposition. Jake again has lost out there.   
When Lia gets frustrated, you’ve noticed that rocking back and forth, spinning in a circle and trying to re-gain some order by lining up her toys seem to have become repeated mannerisms. But for the most part she looks like a perfectly normal little girl with h/c hair down to her shoulders and wide, curious e/c eyes. According to your mother she’s just as stubborn as you were at that age, _and_ as reckless, preferring to climb trees especially when you’re in Wales, or harass Uncle Sherlock to be shown an experiment or something gory. Something, which Sherlock is only too happy to oblige, causing horror in Mycroft and leaving you feeling absolutely exasperated.   
It’s in the home and especially when her Daddy’s around however that Lia seems to particularly flourish. Unlike when she was a baby and rather indifferent to the pair of you, barely glancing up at you or recognizing your voices, now that she’s grown up a little she seems to have become fixated with Mycroft, throwing beaming smiles at him, clinging onto his arm and trailing after him in the house or watching him intently whenever he’s on the phone. You’d been happy and you _still_ feel happy about how close the pair of them are. You know that although it had made Mycroft feel a little awkward at first to be the recipient of so much devoted attention from his daughter it had made him happy too and helped ease the transition of fatherhood, stopped him from worrying so much and helped him to focus on the happier aspects of it all. It had also left you feeling rather amused. You can’t deny either of course that Mycroft deserves all of the love. You’d been a little worried about how he’d cope as a father at first. You’d known that it had been hard enough for him to manage showing his softer side to you sometimes, yet you’d worried whether he’d be able to do the same thing with a baby. Especially when a baby growing into a child might not always understand why their father seems so cold sometimes. But in actual fact he’s been a revelation, always trying to be there for you both, making sure that everyone’s time is organized well so that you get a break when he comes home from work, putting Lia to bed, reading to her, explaining things patiently as they sit together on the settee with Lia hanging off his every word and her mouth agape as she listens to what her clever Daddy’s on about next. He’d even dressed up as Father Christmas one year when you’d wheedled him until he’d done so and promised that you’d be his Mrs. Claus if he did. You just wish that Lia could perhaps devote a smidgen of the clear love that she has for Mycroft to you. You feel guilty for feeling this way. For feeling sometimes jealous when you see them snuggled up together, when you see the love that shines in her eyes as she looks at her father and when you know in your heart that all she wants to do is spend more time with him. She comes alive in his presence. He’s the earth and sun to her. But after all it isn't just like Mycroft’s flavour of the month, he’s _always_ been her favourite, and you can’t deny that as the one who’d expected an easier ride into parenthood, that’s a rather difficult thing to come to terms with. A resentfulness that you wish you could halt begins to grow inside you, swirling amongst all the guilt that you feel. It eats you up as you work on scripts and hovers constantly in the background as you rush to meet deadlines. You've found yourself strangely in demand of late and Mycroft’s been very proud of you, telling you that you must record every script of yours that becomes a TV episode and save them all up for when Lia gets old enough to appreciate them. 

 

Such far off appreciation of you still feels like a dream though, _and,_ one Sunday morning at the beginning of April things come to a head. Its already been a rather tense couple of days. Mycroft had come home in a mood just that past Thursday. It had been quite late and both Lia and you had already been in bed. He’d been moving around so noisily, something so unusual for him, and you’d been frightened that he’d wake your daughter. It had come as a shock to you when he’d finally confessed that he’d had a call from John that day to say that Sherlock was using drugs again. You’d talked late into the night about how John had found Sherlock at a crack-den and how Molly had then tested the consulting detective, slapping him and berating him when it had turned out positive. You’d felt, quite frankly, almost just as angry with Mycroft for hiding at work until the late hours and not being upfront with you. But when you’d seen how thoughtful he’d been and how there hadn’t been any point in getting annoyed with him, you’d gone on to wonder why Sherlock might have chosen to do such a thing in the first place. As far as you’d been aware there hadn’t been anything major happening in any of his cases. Mycroft had muttered something incomprehensible when you’d said that point and turned away from you. You’d already lost Mycroft to work yesterday, despite the fact that it had been a Saturday, so you currently find yourself hoping for a peaceful Sunday and a happier husband. 

 

Lia comes skipping downstairs to the kitchen where Mycroft is reading a newspaper by the table and you’re clearing away the breakfast things. She barely acknowledges you, before she goes to stand by her Daddy. 

 

“Morning Daddy,” she says, the beaming smile that’s reserved for him on full show as she clutches at his arm. 

 

“Good morning Lia,” Mycroft murmurs, rustling the newspaper a little as the corner of his lips twitch upward in spite of himself. No matter how angry he might be feeling with his brother right now he’s never been able to resist his daughter’s charms. 

 

“Daddy, Daddy, will you help me with my homework today?” Lia asks as soon as Mycroft’s eyes go back to his newspaper. She shifts her hold on his arm. 

 

Mycroft lowers the newspaper to the table and looks at his daughter a little more seriously. “Didn't we say that you were going to do any homework that you had last night?” he asks her in a soft tone. Lia lets go of his arm. 

 

You glance over from where you’re wiping one of the counters down, curious to see how this will play out and feeling a little uneasy about it all. You’re pretty sure that it won’t take much to set Mycroft off today. He’s already made it clear to you that because of his disruption on Thursday he’s got to spend a few hours this morning working from home. 

 

Lia pouts a little and looks down for a moment. “Yes,” she answers her Daddy’s question, before she clutches dramatically at her head just like she’s seen you do, “But I had a headache and I couldn't do anything, just like Mummy when she has hers.”

 

You feel a swell of irritation with your daughter. Lia’s used that excuse before. She knows that it’s the only thing that will work on Mycroft. 

 

Sure enough Mycroft’s eyes soften at once and he begins, “In that case”- 

 

You huff out a breath and move closer to the pair of them. “Lia please don’t lie,” you tell her, “You didn't do your homework last night because you wanted to watch TV and went ahead and did so even though I told you not to. There was never any headache.”

 

Mycroft glances at you with a furrowed brow. He’d arrived home late again last night and all this had passed him by. His face darkens as he looks back to his daughter. “Lia is this true?” he asks. Lia folds her arms. She looks down as what you suspect are crocodile tears fill her eyes. _“Lia?”_

 

“Yes Daddy,” she says, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes, “But I didn't mean to.” 

 

You let out a disbelieving scoff and Mycroft looks at you in surprise, whilst Lia looks at you with darkness in her e/c eyes. You don’t particularly care though. You’re sure that your daughter had known _exactly_ what she’d been doing. 

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a disappointed breath as he looks back at her. “You shouldn't have lied Lia. That was very wrong of you. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes Daddy. Sorry Daddy,” Lia says, glancing up at him quickly. But you’re sure that when she looks down you detect the corners of her lips twitching upward and that only serves to irritate you even more. 

 

_“Lia,”_ you say in a cold tone, stepping forwards, “Daddy’s going to be a bit busy with his own work today.” Your tone softens slightly as you go on, “But I could help you with your homework.”

 

Mycroft’s face relaxes and he looks content at the idea. In his head the problem is solved, leaving him free to work. 

 

Lia however only folds her arms even more tightly, before she lifts her head up and snaps, “You can’t!”

 

Mycroft’s face immediately darkens. 

 

“Why ever not?” you ask, as your heart beats unevenly and you step forwards. 

 

“Because you’re stupid,” Lia retaliates.

 

You barely have time to open your mouth, before Mycroft’s on his feet, the light wooden chair that he’d been sitting on scraping noisily back against the floor. You let out a breath of surprise, whilst a fear clutches at your heart and Lia steps back hurriedly. _“Apologize,”_ he demands. 

 

_“Daddy”-_ Lia begins to protest. 

 

“No,” Mycroft huffs, “You’re not to call your Mummy that. Not ever. Do you understand?” He points a finger at her. 

 

Lia looks stunned, and you can tell that the tears on her face are real ones this time. Mycroft’s never spoken to her so angrily before. 

 

As touched as you are by him defending you, you can’t help but feel that you ought to be trying to calm him down. _“Mycroft”-_

 

“I won’t put up with such talk Lia,” Mycroft says, and you think for a moment that he’s acting as if you hadn’t spoken, but you change your mind a moment later by the way that he then straightens up and huffs out a breath. He folds his arms and looks down at Lia in a disapproving fashion. “Go to your room. I can’t bear to see you right now,” he mutters, and the words feel like a blow to you, so you can’t even imagine what they must feel like to your seven-year-old daughter who worships the very ground that Mycroft’s feet walk on. 

 

“Daddy,” Lia protests, flinging her arms down by her sides and looking up at him desperately. Her face is all red and blotchy. Her eyes are full of tears. 

 

A muscle twitches in Mycroft’s jaw, but he stands firm. “No,” he announces, before he repeats, “Go to your room.”

 

Lia looks devastated by this turn of events, before a ripple of emotion passes over her face. “I hate you,” she says, glaring at you, before she stomps out of the room. 

 

_“Lia,”_ Mycroft calls warningly after his retreating daughter’s back, but she continues down the hallway without further word. You hear her rushing upstairs a moment later. 

 

You let out a breath and suddenly Mycroft’s in front of you, peering down at you concernedly. “I'm sorry F/N,” he murmurs as he takes you gently in his arms, “You didn't deserve that.”

 

You nod and swipe your thumbs just beneath his shoulders. They make a soft sound against the black jacket that he’s wearing. “Even so, you didn't have to send her to her room. You could have just talked to her.”

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft acknowledges. He kisses at your hair. “I'm sorry for something else too.” You look up at him. “I know that I haven’t been there for you as much as I should have been this week, and I'm sorry about that.” 

 

Your heart softens. You lean back from him a little, before you swoop up to kiss him. As you do so you realize suddenly just how long its been since you’ve focused on the more physical aspects of your relationship. 

 

Mycroft’s hands go to your back to push you closer as your arms curve around the back of his neck. Your lips come apart for a brief moment and you let out a soft sigh against him. His eyes scan your face, before his lips move in to probe and nip at yours teasingly. You let out a ragged breath and your hands claw at his thinning hair, before they push his head closer. One of his hands remains on your back to steady you, but the other begins to trail down towards your bum, the tips of his fingers coming to squeeze against your thigh. 

 

You pull away from him, letting out a whoosh of breath as you do so. “Not here,” you breathe. 

 

Mycroft nods and offers you his hand with intense and purposeful eyes. You take it as your heart thuds in your chest.

 

He leads you upstairs and you close the bedroom door behind you with fumbling fingers. His hands go to your waist, pressing you back against it. The door lets out a shudder and you let out a breath. 

 

_“Lia,”_ you breathe, trying to keep a straight head even though you want this so badly. You want your husband’s body against yours; want him inside of you, want him reassuring you that your daughter loves you and that someday she’ll look at you the same way that she looks at him, as if you’re someone to be admired rather than the bad parent and the one who’s always trying to spoil her fun. 

 

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, with a breathless firmness, “It’s just us,” and then his lips are on your neck and you’re arching your head back, closing your eyes and groaning because it feels so good. “You might want to be a bit quieter though,” Mycroft hums teasingly into your ear. 

 

You bat at his arm and he spins you across to the bed with a chuckle. 

 

*

 

Once you’re both just lying there beneath the covers in a post-coital glow, you blushing a bit as the memory of how Mycroft had rammed his hand over your mouth to stop you from being so loud comes back to you and Mycroft is looking extraordinarily smug and pleased with himself, you rub at strands of his chest hair between your forefinger and thumb, whilst you state, “You’re going to have to talk to her.”

 

“Perhaps after a shower and a spot of lunch,” Mycroft murmurs, stroking at your hair. You nod and he kisses you one last time, before he gets out of bed. 

 

*

 

Lunch gets a bit difficult though when Lia refuses to come down. 

 

In the end, whilst Mycroft huffs out a breath of frustration and begins to eat you go up and knock on her door. “Lia?” you call, “Lunch is waiting downstairs.” You peer around the door. The walls to Lia’s room have been refreshed now with a deeper yellow that have a large stencilled daffodil on each one outlined in black, one of them above the dark wooden headboard on the single bed that is at the back wall as you go in to the left and that has a deep plum coloured duvet and many cushions upon it. There is a dark brown bedside cabinet on the other side of it with a black lamp, an orange beanbag at the foot of said bed, which she is currently sitting on, rocking back and forth and scowling at the floor with folded arms, a small bookshelf just beyond that, which stands proudly next to the window. Whilst a map of the world, many posters of different animals and flowers take up the wall on the right along with her wardrobe and chest of drawers. A Red Setter dog calendar hangs off the back of the door. 

 

“I hate you. Daddy used to love me and now he hates me and it’s all your fault,” she pouts. 

 

“Lia don’t be silly. Please come downstairs,” you urge. 

 

She just turns away from you with a thump. 

 

In the end Mycroft and you end up eating lunch together, and then, whilst you clear away the lunch things Mycroft goes upstairs to talk to Lia. 

 

She’s still sitting on her beanbag and her eyes fill with tears as soon as he enters. “Daddy do you hate me?” she asks. 

 

Mycroft huffs out an anxious breath and goes to crouch before her. “Of course not my darling. I could never hate you.” They share a quick hug in which Lia’s small hands grasp hard onto Mycroft’s back. “But you have to understand that you can’t go around saying things like that about Mummy,” he says as he pulls back from her, “Especially when they couldn't be any less true.” 

 

Lia looks to the carpet with a frown, as if she doesn’t quite understand why he’s telling her such a thing. “But she _is_ stupid,” she says as she finally looks up at him, “She’s not as clever as you or I,” she goes on bravely, knowing that it might further invoke her father’s wrath. 

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mycroft lets out a breath, before he offers his hand to Lia. She takes it and he moves them both across to the gap between the wardrobe and the chest of drawers on the right. He lets go of her and slides down the wall into a sitting position. Lia settles upon him, her back against his chest. He places one hand on her arm to steady her and places a delicate kiss down upon her shoulder, before he rests his chin on it momentarily. “What you have to understand Lia is that there’s more than one type of cleverness.” Lia looks around at him in amazement. Mycroft lets out a breath. “Perhaps this is my fault,” he muses, “For not explaining this to you sooner. But I want you to understand that the cleverness both you and I place a value on is not nearly as great as the cleverness that Mummy holds inside her.” Lia’s brow furrows. Mycroft holds her close. “Do you remember when Mummy and I first sat down with you and explained that you’d be working with a special tutor sometimes at school?” he asks. 

 

Lia’s face crumples a little and her hands go on to play with her father’s large ones, which are clasped gently upon her sides. “All the other children were mean to me,” she nods. “Except Grace.”

 

“Yes my love,” Mycroft says as his heart sinks, “But you told us just like we’d always instructed you to if anyone was mean to you. We got it all sorted, didn't we?” 

 

“They still treat me like I'm different though,” Lia pouts. 

 

Mycroft shifts his position beneath her. “But who do I keep telling you to think of whenever you feel sad about that?” 

 

“Uncle Sherlock,” Lia responds quickly, eager to please. 

 

“Mmm yes, good,” Mycroft kisses at her hair. Lia wriggles and lets out a bit of a happy shriek. Mycroft pulls a bit of a face at her sudden loudness, before his face softens again and he smiles. “Because he’s different isn't he? Yet he doesn’t much care for what people think. He just gets on with it.”

 

“Like you Daddy,” Lia says gleefully, pushing her head back against his chest and he rests his chin down upon it. 

 

“Yes,” he agrees cautiously, “But the point is though Lia that when you were first born”-Lia wrinkles her nose. She’s seen baby photos of herself before and she hates them. Babies are definitely _not_ cute-“Mummy and I had no idea that you’d be different too, _or_ just how special you’d turn out to be. I have to admit that I was worried about you, and I would have never gotten through that time as well as I did without your Mummy’s support.”

 

“That doesn’t have anything to do with cleverness though,” Lia comments, “That’s just her being caring and boring.”

 

“Sometimes caring for someone can be extraordinary,” Mycroft murmurs, and Lia can’t know that his mind’s gone back to when she’d just been a baby, you’d been out and Mycroft had been left fully in charge of her. Can’t know that he’s remembering how he’d looked down at his daughter and marvelled at how delicate she’d been. Marvelled that he’d actually had a hand in creating someone so beautiful and strong-willed, even at that age. 

 

Lia frowns and looks around at him. “Uncle Sherlock said that you once told him caring wasn’t an advantage,” she says. 

 

Mycroft shifts his position and looks to the floor. “Yes,” he murmurs, wishing that his brother hadn’t passed that particular fact on. “It’s true that I once said that, and true that I still believe in it to a point. But you have to be older than your years now Lia and try to understand all of this.” He glances at her. “It’s hard I know, it took me an age to understand it myself, but even though caring for someone can be frustrating, especially when they don’t realize or recognize how strong your feelings are for them, even though it can leave you open to hurt and feelings that you’d rather not have, it leaves you open to explore some wonderful opportunities too. Just think, if I’d never opened myself up and admitted my feelings for your Mummy then I would never have had you.” 

 

“I still don’t see what that has to do with cleverness,” Lia says persistently. 

 

“It has to do with cleverness,” Mycroft goes on gently, “Because Mummy has an ability inside herself to connect with not only ordinary people, but the most difficult and struggling ones if she really wants to. She in turn makes them want to get to know her, at least that’s what she did with me and I’d never felt that so strongly before. Just think about our own differences from other people and what we make Mummy put up with every day. It’s not easy to deal with such things Lia. That’s why it’s important that you try and be good for her. She already does a lot more than you realize.”

 

Lia’s face scrunches up as she twists around to him. “But she can’t do the mind palace thing, _or_ remember lots of facts, surely both of those are more useful?” she asks, ticking off both points with her fingers. 

 

As she looks away from him Mycroft leans back consideringly. He brushes at the bottom of his daughter’s hair. “One day you’ll understand that they’re not.” Lia looks frustrated when she briefly looks back around at him. Mycroft lets out a little breath. “I'm not sure if Mummy would approve of me telling you this right now.” Lia looks at him curiously. “She might think that it would frighten you”-Lia opens her mouth to protest. Nothing frightens her apart from earlier when Daddy had gotten mad-“Or that it’s too soon for you to be given such information. But perhaps this will help you understand even more why it’ s so important for you to not call Mummy what you did earlier.” He pauses. “Quite some time, before we had you Lia, Mummy was caught up in a traumatic incident.” Lia’s brow furrows. “A car deliberately hit her”-

 

_“Why?”_ Lia asks aghast because up until this point she’d rather thought that you had it quite easy, rarely having to go anywhere for work and living in this big house with Daddy. 

 

Mycroft strokes carefully at his daughter’s hair. “Like Mummy and I have previously told you Lia there are some bad people in this world. At that point in time Mummy and I had only just had an opportunity to start dating,” Mycroft considers his words carefully, “But the bad people wanted to hurt us and to stop us from doing so.”

 

Lia clutches at his hand. “What happened then Daddy?” she asks. 

 

“Your Mummy was lucky not to have too many injuries physically, but her mind was altered.” Mycroft swallows, and it’s only the ticklish strokes that Lia makes against his hand, which keep him from stopping. “She lost four years of her memory Lia.”

 

_“Four years?_ But that’s”- her hands waggle about as she tries to do a quick calculation. 

 

“Over half of your life,” Mycroft informs her sombrely and Lia’s mouth drops open in astonishment. “She’d been quite confident before that, not brash by any means, but pretty secure in getting her thoughts and feelings across. Yet although, of course, she was still the most beautiful woman in the room, it affected her dreadfully. Its taken her a long while to become as settled as she is now. For a long time, and still on the odd occasion, I can tell that it trips her up and makes her feel stupid. That’s why it’s so important that we, as her family, support her and let her know that we think otherwise. Let her know that we think she’s strong, smart, beautiful, capable and that we will always be there to support her.”

 

“I feel really bad for calling her that now Daddy,” Lia says with a crestfallen expression upon her face. 

 

“I think Mummy would like it if you could go downstairs and tell her that sweetheart,” Mycroft informs her. 

 

Lia nods, scrambles off him and goes downstairs. She finds you in the living room on your laptop. You stop what you’re doing and look up at her. _“Mummy?_ I'm sorry for what I said earlier,” Lia apologizes. 

 

Your heart softens, but only slightly. You’re still smarting, as silly as you know it is, from what she’d called you. “I accept your apology Lia. Perhaps you could go and make a start on your homework now?” you tell her with a bit of an edge to your tone. 

 

“Yes Mummy,” Lia bows her head respectfully, before she leaves the room. 

 

Mycroft passes his daughter when she’s on her way upstairs and he’s on his way down. “You apologized?” he momentarily stops to ask her. 

 

“Yes Daddy,” she says quietly. 

 

“I'm proud of you,” he murmurs, stooping to kiss her hair. “What are you going to do now? Would you like me to make some lunch for you?” 

 

Lia shakes her head. “I'm not hungry Daddy,” she says, before she adds, “I'm going to make a start on my homework.”

 

Mycroft looks at her approvingly. “Good. I can check it over for you later on if you like?”

 

Lia suddenly looks a lot happier. “Thank you Daddy,” she beams, before she makes her way up the rest of the stairs far more willingly. 

 

Feeling more content Mycroft makes his way into the living room. He kisses you on the cheek, before he sits down beside you. 

 

“Someone’s looking pleased with themselves,” you comment with a bit of a smile.

 

“Well,” Mycroft murmurs, drawing himself up as if he has every right to be, “Lia _did_ apologize, which was what we both wanted her to do.” 

 

You nod in acknowledgement and look down at the laptop screen, before you look back at him and ask, “Did you offer to check her homework for her?” Mycroft nods. You huff out a breath, slip your laptop onto the floor with a bit of a clunk and stand up, moving a couple of paces away. 

 

“My dear?” Mycroft asks in puzzlement, moving to the edge of his seat anxiously as he wonders what on earth can be wrong with you now. 

 

“You’re too soft on her,” you mutter over your shoulder at him, before you turn back to face him properly when you see how confused he still looks. “She should have apologized anyway. You shouldn't be rewarding her for doing so.” You huff out a breath. 

 

Mycroft stands up. “I was only trying to encourage her to apologize more promptly in the future.”

 

“But this way, after all that, she’s just getting what she’d wanted in the first place. There’s no punishment.”

 

“She hasn’t had any lunch my dear, I think that’s quite punishment enough,” Mycroft protests with a weak chuckle. 

 

“For you maybe,” you utter, casting a dark look his way and Mycroft’s face falls, which makes you feel guilty. Still, “She brought that on herself,” you say stubbornly, before you turn around and stalk off to the kitchen. 

 

Mycroft follows you, arriving just at the right time to see you tugging a bottle of wine out from the wooden rack. 

 

“F/N, it’s a bit early to be having that, don’t you think?” he asks, coming across to you just as you plop the wine down upon the black counter.

 

“I'm only having one glass. Look, I’ll even pour you one,” you say, as you go across to fetch two glasses and bring them back to the counter. 

 

“I don’t want one,” Mycroft tells you, shifting uncomfortably. “I should really be working right now. The morning’s gone as it is.”

 

_“Tough,”_ you inform him, before you open the wine with a pop and pour some of it sloppily into both glasses. “That’s what happens when you have a family. You have to be flexible. If you can lose time to Sherlock then you can lose time to us.” 

 

Mycroft, with the quickness and stealth of a dancer, snatches the glass out of your reach just as you make to grasp at it. You huff out a frustrated breath and make to grab the other one, but Mycroft’s free hand swipes it up, before you can. 

 

“Mycroft for God’s sake! I just want one glass,” you say, swivelling around to see that he’s almost trapping you with his body against the counter, holding both glasses so that your head’s in between them. You can smell the pungent, fruity aroma of the wine and it just makes you feel even more annoyed with your husband. 

 

“I want to know _why,”_ Mycroft says with an equally stubborn expression upon his face. “Why you feel the need today, right at this moment, to drink when you know that you shouldn't?”

 

You huff out a breath. “Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that our daughter’s got you so wrapped around her little finger that an apology is all it takes, before you’re satisfied.”

 

“What would you like me to do?” Mycroft asks, stepping back from you and turning so that he can spill both glasses of wine down the sink. It’s a gesture that makes you angrier than ever, and when he places the now empty glasses of wine cautiously down upon the counter next to you, you look up at him with a glare on your face. “I have to deal with enough disputes at work,” Mycroft says, staring at you steadily, “Without having to deal with them at home too. What happened this morning happened, but I spoke to Lia, just as you wanted me to I might add, and she apologized. I don’t see why this has to go on any further.” You huff out a breath, fold your arms and turn stubbornly away from him. You feel Mycroft’s arms snaking around your waist. You let out a little breath and your hands automatically go down to clutch at his. “I thought it might help, so I told Lia about your incident,” Mycroft murmurs honestly in your ear. 

 

_“Mycroft!”_ you say, whirling around and slamming your hands angrily against his chest. 

 

“It was _time_ F/N,” he eyes you pleadingly, “She needed to understand why it’s so important that she doesn’t call you that, and the other way that I tried to explain it to her didn't seem to be getting through, so”- Mycroft shrugs. 

 

“You’re so naïve!” you blurt out, suddenly beside yourself. Mycroft looks at you incredulously as if he can hardly believe that you’ve just called him that. “Do you really think that telling her that is going to mean that she never says anything like that to me again? If anything she’s going to think that I'm even _more_ stupid. Her mother whose got these holes in her head. Who can’t even remember the first time that she slept with her father.” You look anguished by the time that you reach the end of your words. 

 

Mycroft steps back, scrutinizing you carefully. “I think you’d be surprised actually,” he informs you, “Far from thinking that you’re stupid Lia seemed to show a reasonable understanding and seemed quite sympathetic towards you.”

 

“She’s _seven_ Mycroft,” you scoff, “Grown adults don’t properly get what I’ve been through.” You look away from him. 

 

“I suppose you’re including me in that?” Mycroft asks, stepping forwards. 

 

“Right now, yes,” you look back at him. “Because if you really got it,” you lower your voice, “If you _really_ understood how _vulnerable_ I felt and how I _still_ feel sometimes because I have chunks of stuff that’s happened in my life that I can’t even remember, then you wouldn't have been so quick to share it with our seven-year-old daughter.” You pause. “You wouldn't have shared the most vulnerable time of _your_ life with her,” you point out. 

 

“I just did,” Mycroft replies curtly, before he walks smartly out of the room. 

 

You frown. 

 

* 

 

Things remain tense between Mycroft and you over dinner. You speak only coolly to ask the other to pass something. You can tell that Lia-joining you this time-has noticed as she keeps looking in between the pair of you nervously. Unlike Mycroft though, you don’t try to talk to her, and when Mycroft and Lia take over the kitchen table after dinner, so that he can begin to check over Lia’s homework, you find that you have to stalk out. You feel annoyed with yourself for acting this way, but you just can’t help it. Mycroft had no right to share something so personal with your daughter, _especially_ when she is far too young to understand any of it. At the very least he should have asked you first. You would have said ‘No,’ just like you always have.

 

You huff out a sigh as you find yourself entering the bedroom and sitting down on the bed. You slip your phone out of your pocket. 

 

_Please tell me that you have something interesting to say that will distract me?_ You find yourself texting John. 

 

**Well, that’s putting me on the spot, but as it happens yes. I wasn’t going to mention this so soon, I’m still recovering from it myself, but I found out this morning that Sherlock has a girlfriend.**

 

You let out a breath and just stare at your screen nonplussed for a moment. _Wait, I thought you just said that Sherlock has a girlfriend,_ you put. 

 

**Yep.**

 

_Who???_ You text back, wondering who on earth could be that crazy and hoping that they’re capable enough to deal with Sherlock’s dramatics. Not to mention to look after him, which is what you sense that he really needs at the moment. 

 

**Janine, one of Mary’s friends. She was bridesmaid at the wedding, that’s how Sherlock and she first met. Though I hadn’t realized that they’d stayed in touch or anything.** You find yourself just thinking and feeling sad for a moment. This is another thing that you should know. **F/N?** John texts. 

 

_Sorry,_ you send back, _I just got lost in thought there for a moment._

 

**Is everything all right? How come you needed to be distracted in the first place?** John replies. 

 

_Oh, I'm fine, really. What’s this Janine like then?_

 

**Confident,** John sends, which makes you snort. **Are you sure that you’re okay?**

 

_Tell me she’s not a female Sherlock,_ you send, ignoring John’s last sentence completely. 

 

**Not quite, but she’s getting there. Apparently at some point Mary and I are going to have dinner with them. As interesting as I'm sure it would be, can you think of a way out?**

 

You smile, feeling a little better, and you go on to spend a considerable amount of time texting ways, which only become more and more outlandish that John can get out of the horrific meal, before John finally has to go. 

 

*

 

“Mummy and you had an argument didn't you?” Lia asks, as she stands by her father who is staring down thoughtfully at the papers on the table. Mycroft blinks out of thought and looks up at her. “You've been looking at the same calculation for a whole two minutes Daddy, and I know that it’s not that complicated for you,” Lia explains.

 

_“Oh,”_ Mycroft starts. Apparently Lia’s inherited your ability to see right through him. The thought makes him smile for a moment, before he frowns, once more feeling uncomfortable. 

 

_“Daddy?”_

 

He looks at her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he tells her. Lia stares at him maddeningly. “It’s just like I told you earlier, Mummy’s incident is a bit of a sensitive subject.” 

 

Lia nods and Mycroft goes back to his checking without further comment.

 

*

 

That night Lia goes to bed first and then you. Mycroft pads up not long after. You’re sleeping on the right side of the bed as per usual and you’ve got your back turned to him. 

 

“You’re going to have to sleep in the spare room tonight,” you tell him. You hear Mycroft stop. You sit up and look at him. “I don’t want to share a bed with you.”

 

A muscle twitches in Mycroft’s jaw. His eyes fix down upon the duvet. “What if I want to share one with you?” His eyes go back to you. 

 

“I guess if you’re going to be stubborn about it,” you shrug, “Then _I’ll_ have to be the one to sleep there. I just thought that what with you being a gentleman and all…” you trail off deliberately. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “ And it baffles you as to how our daughter has got me so wrapped around her finger?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you. You bite at your lip, but still shrug. He lets out another breath. “What if I say, _‘No?’”_ he asks, “Because I want you to be sensible about this and realize that I only told Lia what I did in the hope that it would be of benefit to your relationship with her?” 

 

“Well, you got that wrong,” you huff out, moving to lie down on your side with a thump. 

 

Mycroft comes around, undresses and slips into bed beside you. You turn away from him. He wriggles forwards, slips a careful hand upon your side and lets out a soft breath against your neck. “I'm not sure that I did,” he confesses. You stiffen. “I'm of the belief that Lia would have been keen to hear more from you at dinner time. Perhaps you could even talk to her about all that you’ve been through some time?” he suggests. 

 

_“You’re_ her favourite,” you mutter, choosing to ignore his latter statement completely, “As long as you speak then she doesn’t care.” 

 

Mycroft lets go of you and jerks upward, looking at you carefully. “Are you really jealous of a seven-year-old?” he asks, sounding revolted. 

 

You don’t answer. 

 

*

 

You awake hazily some hours later to the sound of Mycroft’s soft voice as he talks on his mobile at the foot of the bed. You lift your head up blearily, noticing that the light’s on. You roll around to sit up just at the same time that Mycroft comes off the phone. He looks harried and his face seems oddly pale in the low light. You feel a trembling of something inside you, telling you that something’s not right. “What’s”- 

 

“Sherlock’s been shot,” Mycroft responds, throwing his phone down onto the bed and hurriedly crossing to the wardrobe so that he can pull some clothes on. 

 

_“What?”_ you say, scrambling out of bed, “Is he”-

 

“He’s been taken to hospital,” Mycroft says, doing his shirt buttons up clumsily, before he throws on a black jacket. “I need to get down there. I have a suspicion as to what this might be about.”

 

“I’ll”- you begin, before you quickly break off when Mycroft’s head jerks up towards you. 

 

“You’ll stay here and look after our daughter should she wake,” Mycroft says with his eyes fixed on you. 

 

You swallow and nod. Mycroft gathers up his phone and heads downstairs a moment later. You tug on your dressing gown hurriedly and follow after him. 

 

He turns back to you by the door and the pair of you open your mouths. 

 

_“Daddy?”_ comes a voice. 

 

You whirl around to see that Lia’s standing at the top of the corner of the stairs. She’s in her pyjamas and dressing gown too. “Lia go back to bed,” is what instantly comes out of your mouth, despite the fact that as usual she’s only got eyes for Mycroft. 

 

“What’s happening?” she asks him. 

 

Mycroft steps forwards, looking up at her imploringly. “Nothing,” he begins dismissively, “I’ve just got to take care of some business, but I want you to be good for Mummy and know that I’ll be back soon.” Lia doesn’t say anything. “Do you understand?” Lia nods. Mycroft’s eyes go from her back to you again. He touches at your arm. “I’ll see you at some point,” he says, barely looking at you. His voice sounds tense. He begins to turn around. 

 

_“Mycroft?”_ you ask, stepping forwards and feeling like you must say something more to him, before he goes. He turns back around diligently. “E-Everything will be all right. I'm sure of it.” The words feel inadequate, but what else can you say? _Especially_ in front of Lia? To her, her Uncle’s almost as heroic as her father. She doesn’t know about the drugs-Mycroft and you have wisely decided to keep her away from Sherlock for a little while until Sherlock’s definitely clean again-and you sense that although she has some knowledge of what Sherlock does, she has no idea of the true dangers in his work. To her Sherlock’s her madcap Uncle who’s capable of getting interesting body parts. She’d be horrified to hear that he’s in hospital. You’re aware too of the double-meaning that’s behind your words, and you don’t want to alert Lia any more to the difficulties that Mycroft and you have gone through today any more than she is already aware of such a thing. 

 

Mycroft understands the dual meanings behind your words however and his face softens. He pecks at your lips briefly and squeezes at your shoulder. He’s gone in the next moment. You let out a breath and turn to look upstairs. Lia’s gone too. You feel suddenly uneasy and alone. 

 

You pad into the kitchen to get a drink. You have a craving for alcohol, and you’re sure that you can feel a headache burning just beneath your temple, but you opt for tea. You know that Mycroft would hate for you to be irresponsible right now, especially when you’re in sole charge of Lia and after what’s happened to Sherlock tonight. You owe him more than that. 

 

You take the tea into the living room. You text John to see if he’s heard anything about Sherlock. He doesn’t reply. You start to feel anxious. You can’t help it. What if Sherlock’s in a really bad condition? What if he doesn’t make it? You feel a surge of emotion rise up inside you and you feel like you want to be at the hospital for him, for Mycroft too. Guilt spikes such hope and you feel regretful for the way that you’d spoken to Mycroft earlier. Feel bad too for what you’d felt towards Lia. She might lose her Uncle, and you’d wasted time feeling sorry for yourself and feeling jealous. Mycroft had been right in sounding incredulous about the idea. It had been stupid of you to feel that way towards your seven-year-old daughter. You let out a groan of frustration. Why do you have to be so selfish sometimes? 

 

Somehow you must fall asleep because the next thing you know is that Mycroft’s shaking you gently awake. 

 

_“F/N?”_

 

“Mmm?” you mumble, smiling at him a little and sitting upright, before you remember everything again. 

 

“Sherlock’s stable. He’s in a private room. John’s with him now, but perhaps you could go and see him later?” Mycroft says with his hands on your arms. His face looks pale and his eyes are slightly wide with worry. 

 

You nod, feeling relieved to hear that Sherlock’s all right. “But what happened? Was it on a case or”-

 

Mycroft lets go of your arms and stands up. “I have to go back to work,” he says. He turns around. “Just so you know I’ve been in touch with my parents,” he goes on, looking over his shoulder at you. “They are aware about Sherlock and will be coming down to see him today. I’ve offered to put them up in a hotel for as long as they wish. I did not think it wise for them to stay here, but I'm sure that Mummy will also want to use the opportunity to see her favourite grandchild.” He pauses. “Lia’s all right?” he checks. 

 

You nod. “She’s asleep.” He makes to leave the room. “Mycroft?” you say, standing up yourself. He turns back to you. “We-We’re all right aren't we? I'm sorry for acting so stupidly yesterday. I know that you would never mean me any harm. I feel really bad after what happened.”

 

You expect Mycroft to nod. Expect him to perhaps come across and kiss you, fill your ears up with words of reassurance. But you don’t get that. Instead all you get is Mycroft averting his eyes as he tells you, “I'm afraid that I have to go to work F/N. But perhaps we can talk about all this later?” His eyes glance at you for the briefest of seconds to catch you as you nod. He sweeps out of both the room and the house a moment later.

 

*

 

You get Lia off to school-she’s already in a bad mood after realizing that she’d missed her father-and stop off in a corner shop on your way back home. You stop dead as soon as you see the day’s newspapers. On nearly every one of them is Sherlock’s face, but it’s the boastful words apparently supplied by Janine that surprise you the most. Apparently Sherlock and her have quite an active sex life to say the least. Suddenly you feel _really_ out of the loop. You've been a mother for too long and not a dynamic social friend you realize. You’d known that things were moving along in your friends lives too, as well as your own, but Sherlock’s life had largely seemed to be, as far as you had been aware the same as it had been seven years ago. Whilst Mary and John and Mycroft and you had been focusing on family life outside of your jobs, Molly had finally found a steady boyfriend who she’s now engaged to, who whilst eccentric doesn’t thankfully resemble Sherlock in any other way, Anderson’s wife had finally cottoned on to his affairs and divorced him, and Sally and Greg had been dating a few people with Greg even getting engaged, before it hadn’t worked out, Sherlock had seemed content as ever in his role of consulting detective and sarcastic friend. The world had changed around him, but he hadn’t seemed to change all that much in it, at least that’s what you’d thought. This past week though, what with the drugs, John’s revelation and now this, is making you think that you’d perhaps gotten that wrong and that Sherlock’s been changing as much as everyone else has all this time. Feeling bad for not even noticing something so important you buy a couple of the newspapers, more to see the angle and satiate your curiosity than anything else and head home. You think that Mycroft is probably aware by now of their existence, but you text him in the hope of being helpful nonetheless. 

 

His reply comes to you not long after. **I am aware,** is all that he says. 

 

Your heart sinks. To say that you were hoping for more from your husband and an answer that does not feel like you’re merely being brushed aside is an understatement. 

 

*

 

After reading the papers you sense that most of the information is lies, but you still make sure to hide them out of sight, before you go to pick up Lia anyway. You don’t want your daughter seeing them or asking any awkward questions. The longer that she can remain seven the better. 

 

You find that your efforts to protect your daughter from having even more of a bad day go to waste however. Lia’s inconsolable as you meet her outside the school gates. “Where’s Daddy?” she asks, “I want Daddy!”

 

_“Lia,”_ you say as you charge after her towards one of Mycroft’s black cars that’s waiting for the pair of you close to the damp pavement. “What’s going on? What’s happened?” You just about take in some of the odd looks that you’re getting from the other parents, Mrs. Potherwaite being one of them. _God,_ you hate her. She’s always looking down at you, and despite having gotten a divorce a long time ago, she still prefers to be addressed as _‘Mrs._ Potherwaite,’ for prosperity. You send her a frown that you hope that Mycroft would be proud of, before you slip into the car after your daughter. She doesn’t say anything. She just rocks back and forth and shakes her head. You push her gently back against the seat with one hand and tug the seatbelt across her with your other. As soon as it clicks into place you cover her hands with yours. 

 

“Get off me!” she wriggles away from you, “I want Daddy!” Lia screeches, tears in her e/c eyes and her cheeks flushed. 

 

“Lia,” you say patiently, attempting to cover her hands up with yours, but again she bats you away, “I want you to calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

 

For a long time Lia doesn’t speak. She just sniffs and cries as the car trundles agonizingly slowly back to the house through traffic. 

 

Finally she says in a small voice, “E-Everyone was saying mean things about Uncle Sherlock a-and Grace wasn’t in school…”

 

You let out a breath as you realize that some of the other kids must know a rough version of what’s been in the papers. Even if they don’t know the ins and outs it’s apparently enough for them to have decided that your daughter’s fair bait. You feel a sudden surge of anger towards them. 

 

“I want Daddy,” Lia repeats. 

 

Your face softens. “Oh Lia, it’s all right.” Your voice lowers, “Don’t listen to them. Everything’s fine with your Uncle Sherlock.”

 

Her bottom lip trembles and she shakes her head. “I want Daddy,” she says insistently. 

 

You let out a bit of a sigh. What is it about Mycroft that can apparently soothe your daughter so successfully? Why does he only have to enter a room for her to feel happier? Why do you have to work so hard just to make a little impact? Lia looks at you with humongous eyes and you know that you have to keep trying. “Daddy’s at work, but I'm sure he’ll be home soon.” Lia does not look happy. She kicks out at the seat in front of her. “Lia _please_ don’t do that.” 

 

“I want Daddy! I want Daddy!” 

 

She’s still screaming like a banshee by the time that you get home. You send both a word of thanks and an apologetic look to Harry who’s become your regular driver and are thankful when he just nods with an understanding look in his eyes, before you follow Lia up to the house. 

 

The path to your sanctuary is not clear however. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes are waiting for you by the door. You quickly try and re-organize your tired and rather deafened face into one of smiling welcome and stop yourself from letting out a sigh when Lia’s attitude changes immediately and she goes up to them, the clear picture of delighted happiness. 

 

“Oh Lia,” Violet coos, “How is my favourite granddaughter?”

 

Lia simply hugs her tightly around the middle. 

 

“Hello,” you say a little awkwardly as you join the scene, “Mycroft’s still at work, but you’re welcome to come in for a cup of tea.”

 

“That’s very kind of you,” Edwin says. 

 

Violet on the other hand glances up at you and does a double take, before she comments in concern, “F/N, is everything all right dear?” She lets out a nervous chuckle. “Why you look simply exhausted. Perhaps I should send you one of those facial packs that some of my friends swear by? You can’t make me another grandchild looking like that,” she chides. 

 

Lia looks at you simply horrified. “I'm getting a brother or sister?” she asks. 

 

“No,” you assure her, “One of you is quite enough.” Lia scowls. 

 

“Oh nonsense dear,” Violet says, patting at your arm as you make to unlock the door, so that everyone can move inside. “Mycroft and you make a fine pair. There’s no reason why you shouldn't bear more, whilst you’re still both young and healthy.”

 

You bite at your lip in irritation. “I think that’s quite enough of that,” you say, half-glancing at Lia and feeling awkward, before you push the door open. “Besides,” you go on as you all step inside, glancing in the hallway mirror, “I don’t look that bad do I?” You twist your head this way and that and pat tentatively at your cheek. You _do_ look a bit pale. 

 

Your hand goes to your hair just as Edwin says, “You look lovely F/N.”

 

“Oh, thank you Edwin,” you say, withdrawing your hand as you feel pleased.

 

Violet lets out a chuckle. “As much as we always want to be kind, you mustn't lie to F/N dear. It’s unbecoming.” 

 

You swallow, exchange a bit of a hopeless look with Edwin, and lead the way forwards.

 

“Grandma! Grandma! All the other kids were being really horrible about Uncle Sherlock today,” Lia pipes up. 

 

_“Were_ they?” Violet’s voice takes on a dangerous tone, before you can do anything more than open your mouth. 

 

“Lia don’t start that again,” you sigh, making your way into the kitchen and plopping your f/c handbag onto the counter. “Tea?” you ask the adults as you turn back to them all. 

 

“Yes please dear,” Violet says, looking at you briefly, before she turns her attention back to her granddaughter. “Then you can tell us all about these vile children.”

 

“Violet I really don’t think”- you begin, before you break off automatically when Violet raises a finger at you. 

 

“I don’t care how old they are, seven or seventy, no one’s going to get away with being horrible about my boy.”

 

You let out a sigh and set about making the tea. 

 

*

 

Once you’re all seated in the living room with your tea, or lemonade in Lia’s case, with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes on the settee, you sitting on one of the armchairs and Lia standing close by, and Lia’s finished telling her account, Violet huffs, “Children I can just about excuse, but I can make no exception for the adults who have planted these seeds of thought into their minds. About a man who is in hospital too”-

 

“Uncle Sherlock’s in hospital?” Lia pipes up, aghast. 

 

You wince. You’d forgotten that Lia didn't know. Violet looks at you in puzzlement. Edwin’s focus goes to you too. “There hasn’t really been much time to tell her,” you try to explain, “We only got the call in the middle of the night and then she had school”-

 

“I want to go and see him!”

 

“Lia I'm not sure if”-

 

“I want to go and see him! I want to go and see him!” 

 

“Maybe after dinner,” you say, trying to placate Lia’s outburst in front of your embarrassed guests. 

 

_“Now,”_ Lia says persistently, “I want to go and see him _now.”_

 

“Well you can’t,” you tell her patiently. 

 

“Daddy would let me,” Lia pouts, “I’d be there right now if Daddy was here. Daddy would understand.”

 

“That might be the case,” you go on, “But as I’ve told you previously Daddy’s at work.”

 

“Then make him come home,” she whines, flailing her hands. 

 

You let out a derisive laugh, “If I could then believe me I would,” you say, standing up so that you can begin to collect the cups and take them back into the kitchen. 

 

Lia and Edwin both look at you in surprise, but Violet follows you with a dogged look of determination about her face. 

 

You lay the cups down by the sink and let out a breath, steadying yourself by clutching onto the edge of the counter with both of your hands. 

 

“Everything is all right between my son and you isn't it?” Violet asks in as even voice as she can muster, whilst she stands close by, giving you practically no space and peering at you. “You’re not going through any trouble?” You think about the way that just last night you’d asked Mycroft to sleep in the spare room. Think about the testing day that you’d had yesterday along with the brief response you’d had from him this morning. Think about the way that he’d avoided your eyes when he’d said that you needed to talk. Think about all the horrible feelings, which you can’t stop swirling around inside you like some terrible disease. You swallow. She studies you for another moment, before she goes on carefully, “Because whilst I understand that my son can probably be a difficult man to live with at times F/N he does love you, and little Lia too. The pair of you mean the world to him, so no matter what he might have done, please try and understand that.” 

 

“I know,” you say, letting out a little breath, “But everything’s fine, really.” You look back at her. “Everything’s just been a little chaotic, what with Sherlock and everything. He is all right isn't he?” you ask her anxiously. 

 

“He’s fine dear,” Violet says squeezing at your arm, “He very nearly wasn’t, but he is. Thank God. Mind you I swear that if I knew who’d put that bullet in my boy I’d give them a right seeing to.” 

 

You nod a little falteringly, not quite sure what to make of that, although you’re sure that if you were in her position and it was Lia in hospital with a bullet inside her you’d feel the same. You swallow and just about force that dark thought back down, before you make your way into the living room. 

 

“When’s Daddy coming back?” is the first thing that Lia asks as soon as you walk in. She gets up off the settee with folded arms and moves off to the side. 

 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, wishing that Mycroft would just magically appear as you sit back down on the armchair with a thump. He doesn’t. All you get is Violet re-joining you with a thoughtful expression upon her face. She sits back down beside her husband on the settee. 

 

Lia looks down and prods at one of the settee’s arms. “You must know,” she says.

 

“I don’t,” you say, growing even more frustrated with her as you sit on the edge of your chair. You rake both of your hands through your hair, before you press at your forehead with one of them. You’re starting to get a burning sensation just beneath your temple. You close your eyes and hope for a moment’s peace. 

 

Lia stares at you for a moment with a considering expression about her face, before her eyes light up with something. She turns back to her grandmother and says, “I had a headache the day before yesterday Grandma, but Mummy didn't believe me, so now she has one I'm not going to believe her.”

 

You let out a little breath and open your eyes again. “Lia that’s not true. You didn't have a headache”-Lia waves her hands as if to say, _‘See?’-_ “I _do_ have one however, so if you could just try to be”-

 

“Mummy was mean to me yesterday Grandma,” Lia says, spurred on by the fact that Violet’s looking in between her and you curiously, “As mean as all the other children were today, worse in fact because Mummies aren't supposed to do that are they? They’re supposed to be kind to you.”

 

“Just because they’re supposed to be kind to you doesn’t mean that they’re just going to put up with your lies either,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes and clutching at your forehead all the more tightly. 

 

Lia swings her arms back and forth consideringly. “She even turned Daddy against me,” she pouts. 

 

_“Lia”-_

 

“Daddy said that”-

 

“Lia be quiet,” you protest, having had quite enough of your daughter’s silly antics for one day. 

 

“Daddy said that it’s because she’s had bad things happen to her in the past”- Lia goes on. 

 

_“Lia”-_

 

“Do you remember Mummy’s incident Grandma?” 

 

“LIA WOULD YOU JUST BE QUIET?!” you yell, on your feet now, before you can stop yourself. Finally your daughter stills and looks at you. Crocodile tears pool in her eyes as she tries to stop a satisfied smile from playing about her lips. Edwin starts and jumps back in his seat at the force of you. 

 

Violet however observes you coolly for a moment, making you prickle with embarrassment, before she looks at her husband and says, “Why don’t you take Lia outside for a bit of fresh air dear?”

 

Edwin looks at her blankly for a moment, as if this normal idea doesn’t make sense to him after you’d just yelled at your daughter so harshly. “Oh, oh right, yes, of course,” he says, finally shuffling off the settee. _“Lia?”_ he looks to his granddaughter. 

 

“Make sure you put your coat on,” you mutter, sinking back down into your seat and pushing the tips of your fingers against your forehead some more as Lia follows Edwin diligently outside. “Your father would kill me if you got a cold.” You don’t say anything else. 

 

“Why don’t you come and sit beside me dear?” Violet asks, patting at the space that’s now free beside her on the settee. 

 

You swallow and nod, before you get up and go across to join her. You sit right on the edge of it, as if you might take flight again. 

 

“Now dear, let’s stop pretending that there’s nothing wrong here shall we?” she says, tapping at your hand, before she grasps at it loosely. Her weathered skin feels warm against yours. 

 

You swallow a couple of times. “It’s nothing Violet,” you say, still not wanting to admit what’s wrong.

 

“Right,” Violet huffs, before she pats at your knee. “If you still don’t want to talk about it then I'm going to help you fix up some dinner for that girl of yours. Edwin and I can take care of her tonight and then you can take some time off for yourself.”

 

She gets up, but you find that her kindness has only made you feel all the more emotional. “Why are you always so nice to me Violet?” you get out in a rather strangled sob. She looks back at you. Worry creases her face. “You knew the first time we met that I was having problems with my memory, but you still trusted me with your son.” 

 

Violet’s face softens. “Oh dear,” she says, sitting back down next to you, “It would be very hypocritical of me not to trust someone just because they were having memory issues. Edwin’s losing things all the time.” 

 

You let out a snort. “Yes, but this is more than just forgetting.” You wave a hand and try to restrain your sobs as they bubble up inside you. You can’t do much though to stop the tears that spill down your face. 

 

“Oh dear,” Violet says, looking anxiously at you again and squeezing at your hand. “What is it?” she asks, pulling your head comfortingly to her chest, “What’s that son of mine done this time?” she strokes at your hair. 

 

You cry and shake against her for a moment. “H-He told Lia about my incident, a-and I know it’s silly, after all this time, but its just brought everything back, how stupid and vulnerable I felt. How I didn't know who to trust, who I could rely on.” You pull back from her. “I don’t want Lia knowing about all of that. I thought that I might tell her some day, but not right now. She’s too young to understand. She already thinks that I'm stupid”-

 

“Oh dear I'm sure”- Violet begins, before she breaks off when you shake your head. 

 

“That’s what she called me,” you say, folding your arms. You shake your head again. “I know it was just her getting angry, but…” you trail off. “I know-I know that’s what she thinks.”

 

“Well I'm sure Mycroft didn't mean any”-

 

“I know,” you say with a nod, “I know he didn't. It’s just”- you shrug. You can’t explain everything properly to her. Not when she’s Mycroft’s mother. She probably wouldn't understand your feelings towards Lia any more than Mycroft does. 

 

You think that Violet must get some of that however when she states, “Well, I can’t offer you a magic solution dear, but I do know that Mycroft working so much when his brother is in hospital and his family need him probably isn't helping matters.” She pats at your knee. “So, we’re going to sort out that dinner now and then Edwin and I will stay here and give you some time off for yourself.” You nod gratefully, and this time, when she gets up, you do too, before you follow her to the kitchen. 

 

*

 

Violet and you have got dinner under control by the time that Edwin and Lia return from their little walk, and as soon as Lia comes bounding into the kitchen Violet nods at the door, telling you that you can go.

 

“Thank you,” you tell her and she nods understandingly at you. You turn to Lia who’s opening her mouth and looking like she might be about to try and get her grandmother’s attention. “Lia.” Lia turns her head to look at you. You crouch down and grasp at her shoulders. “Grandma and Granddad are going to look after you for a while, okay sweetheart?” Lia’s nose wrinkles in disdain at you using that term of affection on her and she looks off to the side rather than at you. She gives a jerky nod. “I want you to be good for them, okay?” you grip more firmly onto her shoulders. She wriggles a bit against you, before she gives another jerky nod. You let go of her, straighten up and turn back to look at Violet and Edwin who’s now helping his wife to oversee the cooking. “Thank you both for this.”

 

“It’s no trouble dear,” Violet waves a hand at you. 

 

You nod, hoping that one day you’ll be able to repay them for all the kindness that they've shown you. You go and fetch a black jacket from upstairs. You slip it on and head outside. 

 

It’s slowly getting darker, but there’s still enough light in the sky for you to make your way around easily. You get a cab to Canary Wharf and just walk along the Thames for a little while. Then you grab a ham sandwich and sit on a bench, whilst you eat it, pondering over your next move. You can hear the lapping water and the thrum of the heart of the city that’s so close by. You shiver a little and think that Mycroft would probably be horrified if he could see you eating a cold sandwich on a damp bench and wearing only thin layers of clothing. You don’t care though. You move away from your now empty sandwich wrapper and lean back into the bench, closing your eyes. It just feels so nice to have some proper time on your own, even though your head does ache with all the weight of the past few days. 

 

*

 

Darkness has further descended by the time Mycroft finally gets home. He’s tired, and Lestrade visiting him at his office to ask where Sherlock, who’d discharged himself earlier, might be, had not helped things. He rubs at his eyes as he walks up the driveway, preparing himself for the energetic greeting that Lia will no doubt give him and wondering about you and what sort of mood that you’ll be in. He’s not particularly looking forward to either telling Lia about her Uncle being in hospital or having the conversation that he feels he ought to have with you, but he knows that they’re both things, which have to be done. He lowers his hand, opens the door and steps inside the lit hallway. 

 

“Daddy! Daddy!” Lia comes rushing out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards him. Evidently her hearing hasn’t deteriorated since he’d last seen her Mycroft thinks. She hugs him around the middle and he pats at her shoulders until she finally decides to withdraw from him. 

 

“Lia,” he breathes, “Have you been good for your Mummy?” he prays that the answer is, _‘Yes.’_

 

But instead of giving him that one word Lia just says, “Mummy’s not here Daddy.”

 

_“Oh?”_ Mycroft frowns, straightening up. “Then who else is here sweetheart? Surely your Mummy hasn’t left you all alone?” he finishes just as his parents walk out of the kitchen. 

 

“Lia, your hot chocolate’s getting cold dear,” Violet informs her granddaughter, before her eyes meet Mycroft’s steadily and she says, “Hello Mycroft,” a little testily. 

 

Mycroft swallows. He knows that tone. It’s the one that has often haunted his living nightmares. He’s in trouble. He draws himself up to his full height, trying to assert himself. “Mummy where’s F/N?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

 

Violet looks at him with eyes that hold something both hard and gentle inside of them. “F/N’s taking a break dear.”

 

The words send a prickle of discomfort through Mycroft. “Then she should not have burdened you with Lia,” he says with a bit of an edge to his tone, slipping his black umbrella finally into its holder, “You have enough going on with Sherlock.” 

 

“Why, Lia’s not a burden Mycroft,” Violet exclaims, and her eyes flicker with something, “In any case I think you’ll find that your old father and I are still more than capable of looking after a child. You might like to notice that the house is still standing,” she sniffs. 

 

Mycroft swallows, again feeling uncomfortable. He watches as his parents both turn around and shuffle back into the kitchen. 

 

“Did you go and see Uncle Sherlock today Daddy?” Lia’s voice pipes up, as her hand tugs insistently at the black jacket that he’s wearing. 

 

Mycroft frowns, turning his attention to her. He crouches down and looks at her. “What do you know of what’s happened to Uncle Sherlock Lia?” 

 

Lia considers the question for a moment, before she puffs her chest out and says, “Everything.”

 

_“Everything?”_ Mycroft raises a sceptical eyebrow at her. Lia looks at him with a mischievous sort of guilt about her. “Tell the truth now,” he encourages, tickling at her stomach. 

 

_“Daddy!”_ she blurts out, pushing his hand away. Mycroft smiles. “Okay, okay,” she flaps her hands. “Mummy was talking with Grandma and Granddad earlier and Grandma said that Uncle Sherlock was in hospital, and-and I was really worried and wanted to go and see him, but Mummy wouldn't let me.” 

 

“Uncle Sherlock’s fine darling, Mummy should have made that clear to you,” Mycroft says. “In any case she should have explained to your grandparents that they weren’t to tell you until Mummy and I could have a proper discussion with you about it. You shouldn't have found out about it in this way.” He straightens up anxiously. 

 

“Is he really okay Daddy? Can I go and see him now?” Lia asks. 

 

Mycroft’s face softens. “He’s fine, but as for seeing him, well, it’s a little late now.”

 

Lia lets out a little sigh, but she nods and accepts the news gracefully enough. Mycroft smiles, feeling relieved, and offers her his hand, wriggling his fingers. She takes his hand with a bit of a giggle and he leads her to the kitchen, guiding her forwards when they get to the entranceway and allowing her to run towards both the table and her hot chocolate. Seeing that his daughter’s reasonably settled he looks to his mother and asks, “Did F/N say where she was going?” He tries to keep his voice casual for Lia’s sake. 

 

“No,” Violet shakes her head, “But it wouldn't surprise me if she ended up at the hospital dear. She did seem rather worried.”

 

A jolt of panic rushes through Mycroft. His first instinct is to glance at Lia. She’s sitting on the chair half-turned with one leg beneath her and clutching at her hot chocolate cup as she looks at him curiously. 

 

“Daddy?” she asks. 

 

“I have to go out,” he announces, his mind made up. He looks to his parents. “Could you look after Lia for a little while?” 

 

“Of course,” is Violet’s instant reaction, “But why”-

 

Mycroft goes across to her, clutching at her arms. “Sherlock discharged himself earlier,” he says with his mouth close to her ear, so that only she can hear. Violet’s lips part. He swipes his thumbs reassuringly across her arms, not wanting her to worry. “He’s fine, he’s been in touch. There’s just something that he had to do. I’m sure he’ll go back to hospital presently. But I think that F/N might have ended up on a wild goose chase looking for him.” He draws back from her.

 

“You boys,” Violet says in a breath that’s both fond and exasperated as she chooses to trust her son, “Always so busy and running about.” She grasps at his cheeks. Mycroft looks at her. “Go and bring her home,” she tells him wisely, before she finally lets go of him. 

 

He nods to both her and his father and goes to kiss the top of Lia’s head. “I’ll be back soon,” he tells her. 

 

“But you only just came back,” Lia whines, swivelling around to look at him. 

 

“I know,” he says, squeezing at her arm and trying and placate her. “But I’ve got to go and bring Mummy back.” Lia turns around with a scowl on her face. Mycroft gets the impression that she’d rather have a longer break from you and thinks that he’ll have to do something about that. He can’t bear tension inside of this house. He hurries down the hallway, heading for the door. He can hear someone’s footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t stop. They’re heavier than Lia’s. He grabs his umbrella, opens the door and a cool April breeze blows inside. 

 

_“Mycroft?”_ Mycroft turns around. His mother’s standing there and surrounded by a glow of light from the hallway she looks almost angelic, like a wise messenger whose been sent by the heavens. She clutches at his arm. “I'm glad you’re going to look for her dear, but there’s something that you should know, before you do.” Mycroft’s brow furrows. What is his mother blathering on about? He needs to go! “F/N was quite upset earlier”- 

 

“Mummy I need to”- Mycroft begins, attempting to pull away from her as that prickle of uneasiness comes back to him. 

 

“Mycroft Holmes are you listening to me?” Violet screeches, nearly deafening him and tugging him back to her. “I'm trying to tell you that your wife was upset,” she huffs. 

 

“Yes Mummy, but”-

 

_“Very_ upset Mycroft,” she says, shaking his arm. Mycroft swallows and finally stills. “She snapped at Lia”-

 

_“She”-_ Mycroft’s face pales. 

 

“Now, I'm sure that it’s nothing to worry about Mycroft,” Violet says, patting at his hand and suddenly he doesn’t seem able to let go of her. “I just think that you need to do something, before it becomes so. The poor girl’s clearly overworked. You need to talk to her once you bring her home and Lia’s in bed. Find out what’s going on.”

 

Mycroft nods hesitantly. “Y-Yes Mummy.”

 

“You understand how important this is Mycroft?” Violet asks, gripping at his arm and studying his face with a rather severe look in her eyes. “I know from having two boys and a well meaning, but pretty useless husband that a woman can sometimes feel under appreciated. That’s what I suspect F/N is feeling. But you’re going to be there for her. She’s too good for you to let go.” Again Mycroft nods, and finally Violet releases him and lets him walk quickly off into the night.

 

*

 

You walk down one of the hospital corridors feeling a little confused. When you’d asked the receptionist what room Sherlock was in she’d faltered for a moment, before she’d gone to check the details on her computer. She’d relayed the information to you with a reluctance that has left you feeling most uncomfortable. Is Sherlock _really_ in such a bad way? It’s only when you step into the private room that Sherlock’s supposed to be in that you realize just what a great mistake you’ve made. That you realize that the receptionist must have been paid off to give you such information. For Sherlock’s not there. Sitting on the bed instead, and illuminated only by the thin strips of light that filter through the blinds on both sides, is none other than James Moriarty.


	10. Something's Not Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the truth about Mary Watson is finally revealed things spiral further out of control in your home life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support! I'm really happy to hear that this story is being enjoyed. :)

Your hands slam back against the door. Moriarty’s lip curls into a smirk. You look over your shoulder instinctively just in time to see the back of one of Moriarty’s men’s heads covering up the window on the door. You let out a breath and look back at Moriarty. You wonder for a split-second if you should scream. You think of Mycroft, Lia. Your mouth opens and closes. Moriarty’s smirk grows. Your hand fumbles against your handbag, and before you know what you’re doing it’s off your shoulder and you’re clutching it with one hand and undoing the zip with the other. You tug your phone out. Your bag falls to the floor. You let out a ragged gasp as pens, mini notebooks and general junk goes everywhere. Your eyes glance up to meet Moriarty’s. He looks at you in amusement. As you grow more panicked he’s just relishing the control that he’s getting. You look back down at your phone, unlock it and try to call Mycroft. Every time you press to call the screen goes black. You try a few times, before you look back at Moriarty with a sinking heart. 

 

He, wearing a navy suit and tie with white shirt and smartly black polished shoes, smirks at you. His eyes glitter and his mouth chews his gum casually for a moment. “You’re beginning to understand now aren't you F/N? Beginning to understand that you won’t be able to leave until I let you go.”

 

“You’re going to let me go then?” you ask, before you can stop yourself, and you suddenly wish that you weren’t so reckless. If Mycroft were here then he’d probably be shushing you and trying to get in front of you right now. Moriarty looks at you. “Because if you kill me then-then you should know that all of Mycroft’s men will be-they’ll be after you.” You make the threat in a trembling voice that you curse yourself for. 

 

Moriarty looks simply delighted by the prospect. He shifts his position closer towards the edge of the bed, kicks his feet out back and for and looks at you all the more intently. You try and stare at him fiercely, but you get the feeling that you’re not having much of an impact on him. “You don’t even believe yourself do you F/N?” he says, shaking his head sadly. You open your mouth. He raises a hand. “But, as much as I’d like to, I'm not here to talk to you about your husband or offer you the marriage counselling that you clearly so desperately need.” 

 

You scowl at him. “Why are you here then?” you ask, taking a decisive step forwards. 

 

Moriarty’s eyes glitter even more. “I'm here,” he drawls, “To ask you how you would feel if I were to tell you that someone you’ve come to trust is not who you believe them to be?” Your heart hitches inside your chest and your mind, without being able to help it, thinks immediately of Mycroft. “Not sweet Mycroft honey,” Moriarty quips, and you bite down hard on your lip, feeling annoyed with yourself for even thinking that it could be Mycroft. But who? Your lips part and your eyes fix unfocusedly on the window in the distance. Moriarty shifts his position and claps his hands together, making you jump. “Ooh, this is rather good isn't it? Much better than I thought it might be.” You glare at him. He grins widely at you, opens his legs and puts his palms face down upon his knees. “Which one of your friends F/N, out of everyone you trust, would you consider the most likely to be a murderer? To have been once hired by people just so that they could kill?”

 

“None of them,” you blurt out as your heart beats unevenly, “None of them would do that.”

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Moriarty wags a finger at you. “You’re wrong honey, because one of them would.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” you pant, your hands fisting up by your sides. 

 

“Well, start believing,” Moriarty breathes, “Because one of them has killed so may people that I can’t even count.” 

 

You take a step closer to him. “Sherlock might be many things,” you shake your head, “But if you really think that I'm going to believe that he’d go around killing people just because someone’s told him to then you can think again. He’s not you.”

 

“No,” Moriarty leans back, “He’s not me and I'm not going to ask you to believe that because it’s not Sherlock.” 

 

You let out a breath and scrutinize him. Part of you had thought that he might be referring to Sherlock just to try and create the most damage after Mycroft. He’s Mycroft’s brother after all. Not to mention the fact that Lia worships him. “I don’t”-

 

“What if I was to say to you: _Mary Watson?”_

 

Your mouth drops open and your heart slams uncomfortably against your chest. _“No,”_ you shake your head. You’d assumed that he’d meant a man, and Mary, who has children and a loving husband of her own just seems so left-field that you can’t even process it. “You’re lying.” He _must_ be lying. 

 

Moriarty shakes his head. “I'm not. Who do you think shot Sherlock?” he asks. Your mouth opens and you let out a bit of an incomprehensible gurgling noise, before you quickly close it again. Your mind whirs. “Sherlock got too close to the truth on a case he was working on,” Moriarty explains, “Far too close, so Mary shot him. When he went down I really thought he was going to die,” he finishes casually, chewing his gum some more. 

 

Again you shake your head, before you draw yourself up. “No,” you utter, “I don’t believe it. You’re just saying that and you’re making it look like it could be real because you recognize how good Mary’s been to me, how close she’s been, and you’re trying to spoil things.” Moriarty’s eyes flicker. “But you don’t understand, it’s like I told you all those years ago, you can’t separate me from the people I belong with any more.”

 

Moriarty gets up off the bed. “I just hope that John will be as loyal as you after Sherlock finishes telling him right now.” Your face pales, before it hardens. You won’t be taken in by him. He moves to stand to the side of you and turns his head, so that he can look into your eyes. His gum makes a couple of rotations around his mouth. “I’d hate to be responsible for a divorce, especially when there’s children involved. How is Lia by the way?”

 

Every muscle inside yourself stiffens momentarily and your eyes flash, before you find yourself springing into action. You grab Moriarty by the collar of his jacket and push him hard against the wall. “Don’t you dare say her name! Stay away from her!” 

 

Moriarty’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as he shrugs you off him and you hate him all the more for it. He gestures to his suit as if to tell you off for ruffling it, before he smoothes it down again. He leans forwards and whispers into your ear, “Why do you think your family’s such a touchy subject? Is it because you recognize how quickly it could all fall apart?” Your fists tighten. Moriarty smirks, slips something into your hand and leaves the room. 

 

When you lift up your hand to see what he’s given you, you see that it’s now clutching a little wooden ‘M,’ just like the one you’d found in your room all those years ago. You swallow, before you quickly crouch on the floor and start putting all your things back into your handbag. You want to get home as quickly as possible. 

 

When you’re done flinging things in to your bag you stand up, hitch it up onto your shoulder and march out, still carrying the ‘M’ in your hand. You just couldn't bear to throw it in your bag with all your other things and have it rubbing up against things that Lia or Mycroft might have touched, but nor could you bear to just leave it behind either. 

 

You stride quickly down the corridor, but you still haven’t gone very far when you feel something clutching at your wrist. You start, let go of the ‘M,’ which clatters to the floor, let out a gasp and whirl around. You let out a breath of relief when you see that it’s only Mycroft with a furrowed brow standing there. You realize that it is he who is clutching at your wrist. “Lia?” is the first thing that you say. 

 

“With my parents,” he reveals, and you nod, letting out another thankful breath. He lets go of you with a frown on his face and steps back, bending down to pick up the ‘M.’ “Where?” he says, slipping it into his pocket as he straightens up. 

 

“Sherlock’s room, but”-

 

Mycroft turns around to hurry there and you quickly follow after him, feeling worried. As soon as he bursts into the room he scans it with his eyes and throws his umbrella onto the floor, before he begins to search every inch of the room from top to bottom. 

 

You hover awkwardly just inside the door. “You won’t find anything,” you tell him. “He was just sitting on the bed for most of the time. Apart from the ‘M,’ I don’t think he left any other trace of himself behind.” 

 

Mycroft turns around from where he’d been inspecting the blinds at the far end of the room to look at you. “What did he want with you?” he asks.

 

You can tell that he’s worried and part of you wants to go over there, stroke at his shoulders and soothe him. The other part however, all too aware of how difficult things probably are still between you, prevents you from doing such a thing and just makes you stand there awkwardly instead. “He started going on and spouting all these lies. Making Mary out to be some sort of ex-assassin who’s killed people, I mean can you believe it? I told him, if he thinks that I'm going to believe that then he’s got another thing coming,” you shrug, trying to sound as light-hearted about it all as you can and deliberately leaving out Moriarty’s last words, which had rattled you the most. A flicker of something crosses over Mycroft’s face, before he hurriedly forces his lips up to give you a half-smile. He acts too late. Your heart plummets. “Mycroft?” you say, taking a step towards him. Mycroft visibly stiffens. “Oh God, it’s true isn't it?” you ask him incredulously, hardly daring to believe it. Mycroft bites at his lip, before he draws himself up to his fullest height. You approach him, shifting your head from side to side, so that you can look at him in an owl like fashion. “You knew and you still let her be near me? Near _our_ child?” you exclaim as you come to stop before him. 

 

Finally Mycroft’s eyes flicker down to you and he swallows. “Just because you know this about her now does not make the kindnesses or the friendship that Mary has shown you any less. She is still a thrill-seeker, that is true, but she has largely renounced her old ways of living for a different side. If Magnussen hadn’t come into the picture then she would have been able to put the past behind her and”-

 

_“Magnussen?”_ your brow furrows, “He’s the one-the business man they've been showing being questioned in that parliamentary committee recently right? He owns several newspapers”-

 

“That’s correct,” Mycroft confirms.

 

“How is he involved in all of this?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft looks around shiftily. “Perhaps we should talk about this further at home?”

 

You hesitate, before you fold your arms and space your feet out, showing him that you’re not going anywhere. “I’ll ask again,” you say, “How is he involved?”

 

Mycroft looks at you reluctantly. “He’s been putting some pressure on”-

 

“He’s blackmailing her isn't he?” you interrupt, finally getting it. 

 

Again Mycroft looks around. “You should really not be talking of such things,” is all that he says, before he makes to push past you, so that he can head towards the door. But you can tell what the real answer is and you shove him back. Now that, that issue’s more explained there’s something you need to tell him. 

 

_“Wait,”_ you say as his eyes scrape across yours anxiously. Your hands shift against his shoulders, before they slide down to rest just beneath them. Your eyes glance at his, before they decide that they prefer to look at his neck instead. 

 

_“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks softly, sounding concerned. 

 

You swallow a little, before you look back at him. “You need to know something”- you huff out and rake a hand through your hair, before you rest it down upon his jacket again. _“Christ,_ I don’t know how to tell you this, b-but Moriarty said that Mary shot Sherlock.” Your eyes glance up at his. “It might just be a lie, but”- you scrunch your face up and momentarily close your eyes, still having difficulty trying to comprehend it all-“If the bit about her being an ex-assassin is true”-

 

“I know,” Mycroft cuts you off with a gentle heaviness.

 

You blink stupidly up at him for a moment and your hands slowly let go of him. “You know?” you ask, “You know what?” Because Mycroft can’t mean what you think he can, can he?

 

He lets out a tremulous breath. “I know that Mary shot Sherlock. I’ve known for some time now.”

 

You step back from him and just stare at him. Suddenly everything hits you in a rush. “You know?” you exclaim loudly. Mycroft looks at the door nervously. “You know and you’re just fine with that? Why haven’t you done anything? She shot your brother! The brother I know that you’d do anything to protect! How could you just let her carry on completely normally and let her think that she’s gotten away with it? Your mother was angry earlier, saying that if she knew who’d done it then she’d give them a right seeing to. I don’t condone violence, but that’s what _you_ should be like!”

 

“F/N”-

 

“No, no,” you go up to him and slam your hands angrily against his chest. Mycroft lets out a breath and attempts to grab at your wrists when you try to push him again. “You should be furious!” Your hands dart under his and smack him in his middle.

 

“F/N, please”- Mycroft says; finally managing to grab onto both of your wrists. 

 

You struggle against him. Tears spurt down your face. “No,” you shake your head, “You should hate the very ground that she walks on. What kind of man is okay with it when someone shoots their brother? What kind of man”-you break off, shaking your head again-“Is fine with that? Why do you have to be so _cold_ sometimes?” You finish there, but you want to ask him even more than that. Want to ask why he can’t both see and understand how upset you’re feeling about your less than satisfactory relationship with Lia. Or perhaps he can see it, you think suddenly. Perhaps he just doesn’t care as long as he keeps being Lia’s favourite. You let out an anguished breath. You’re too scared by the feelings that both of those thoughts bring you to get them out. Your body trembles and, feeling angry when he just looks at you sympathetically, you try to hit him again. You don’t want him looking at you like that right now. His grip on your wrists tighten however, and he pushes them back, so you can’t even brush the tips of your fingers against him. You let out a frustrated breath. 

 

Mycroft lowers his head down towards you and looks at you desperately. “Believe me I am far from happy about recent events, but try and think about things logically for a moment. The room that Mary and Sherlock found themselves in the other night was tiny. Mary had a clear shot. She is an ex-assassin. She knew what she was doing, and even if she hadn’t then she would have had ample time and opportunity to prepare herself. She could have killed my brother. Yet she chose not to. What does that tell you?” You shake your head, unwilling to listen. You don’t much care about what it tells you right now. Mycroft shakes you a little and you let out a breath as his fingernails dig into your skin. “It tells you that she only wanted to disable him, that perhaps she would have rather not shot him at all and that perhaps she only did so because she was frightened of Sherlock telling her husband and of all this, of people finding out and”-

 

“Even if that’s all true she still shot him so that he could have nearly died,” you protest. 

 

“Exactly, _‘nearly’_ died,” Mycroft reminds you patiently. 

 

You finally pull away from him with a disgusted look upon your face. You massage your wrists, whilst Mycroft lowers his hands cautiously, keeping a careful eye on you just in case you should choose to attack him again. 

 

“How many?” you finally ask. Mycroft looks puzzled, so you elaborate, “How many people has she killed?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Mycroft swallows. 

 

You shake your head and turn away from him, exiting the room just as a nurse comes in to check on why there’s noise coming from it. The nurse’s brow furrows as she looks after you, before she gives Mycroft a suspicious gaze. He gives her an awkward little smile in return just as she opens her mouth, before he hurriedly picks up his umbrella and moves after you. 

 

He has to break out into a jog just to catch up with you. You don’t say anything to him when he does. You just huff out a breath, fold your arms and walk all the more quickly. The ride home in one of Mycroft’s black cars is silent too. 

 

You get out of the car and swing to stand on the damp pavement at the same time that none other than John Watson, walking on the pavement, draws level with the car. Your eyes widen and he touches at your arm at the same time that Mycroft leaves the other side. Your husband’s eyes glance at you both and he clears his throat. John’s hand jumps off your arm. 

 

_“F/N,”_ he breathes, shifting his position a little awkwardly, but you can see the stress and strain that’s on his face. He knows you realize, Moriarty had been right. Sherlock _had_ been telling John at the exact same time that Moriarty had been telling you. John’s hands move about a bit. “I’ll be going to 221B in a while, but I had to get out of there. Sherlock’s been taken back to hospital and it’s just Mrs. Hudson. It’s so quiet. I know it might be inconvenient”-his eyes dart to Mycroft-“But could I come in, just for a little while?” Something about the face he’s trying to keep hardened is wracked with pain. “I can’t go home”-

 

“It’s all right John. You don’t have to explain,” you breathe at last, wanting to soothe him. He looks at you in astonishment. You link your arm with his. “I know,” you tell him. He looks blankly down at your arm. “I know.”

 

_“How?”_ John asks, looking at you, whilst Mycroft keeps a close eye on the pair of you as he talks momentarily with the driver. 

 

“I think Moriarty wanted me to know the same time that you did,” you shrug. 

 

John looks at you. _“Moriarty?”_ he asks, taking you in properly and no doubt checking for any signs of damage, “Is everything”-

 

“Let’s get you inside,” you overrule him at the same time that the car pulls away and Mycroft comes to join you. 

 

“Actually, I don’t think that’s a good idea. F/N and I need to talk ourselves,” Mycroft says. 

 

“We’re _done_ talking,” you glare at your husband. John opens his mouth. As angry and sad and so many things as he is right now he doesn’t want to cause problems for anyone else. “Come,” you tell him, before he can protest. You tug at his arm and begin to lead him up the driveway, towards the house. Mycroft follows after you both dispiritedly with a frown upon his face. 

 

You push the door open and step into the lit hallway, still clutching onto John, and you don’t really know who’s supporting the other more. 

 

_“Daddy!”_ Lia’s excited voice comes as she rushes out of the kitchen bare footed and wearing only her pink patterned pyjamas. She comes to a sudden halt however and chews on her lip when she sees John and you. John pales a little when he sees her, no doubt thinking of his own children. 

 

“Lia,” you look at her seriously, “I hope you’ve been good for your grandparents.”

 

“She’s been as good as gold,” Violet says, coming out of the kitchen herself with Edwin in tow, before she too stops and frowns a little when she sees you with John. 

 

You grimace. You can tell that this isn't exactly the happy homecoming that she’d imagined. Perhaps she’d pictured both Mycroft and you bursting in and looking considerably loved up with one another. Perhaps she’d hoped to be making a little joke, before dragging her husband hurriedly out of there, so that Mycroft and you could re-ignite your love. In any case you drag John to the kitchen, ignoring his slightly embarrassed protests. “John’s had a bad night and could do with a drink. As a matter of fact I could do with one myself,” you announce as you bustle past Mycroft’s parents and John nods a little awkwardly at them. 

 

“Really I can go,” he says, but again you just ignore him.

 

“Oh my,” Violet exclaims, raising the tips of her fingers to her mouth as both Edwin and she look after you. 

 

As soon as John and you disappear from sight Mycroft’s eyes go to his daughter at the exact same time that hers go up to him. Lia’s eyes light up. 

 

“Daddy!” she squeals delightedly, running up and down on the spot for a moment, before she rushes to hug him. 

 

“Lia,” he breathes, “You should be in bed. It’s late.” He takes in the proper sight of how little she’s wearing and frowns. 

 

Violet’s gaze goes across to the pair of them. She takes a step forwards. “We managed to convince her to change into her pyjamas, but she wanted to stay up until you came home.”

 

Mycroft’s gaze goes back to his daughter. She’s resting her chin on his stomach and looking up at him imploringly out of wide e/c eyes. Something softens inside of him and he brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead. She closes her eyes in momentary joy, before she opens them again and beams up at him. Mycroft smiles at her, before he looks across at his mother. “Would you mind taking Lia upstairs?” he asks. 

 

Violet shakes her head, but Lia protests, _“Daddy!”_

 

“I’ll be with you soon,” Mycroft says as his attention goes back to her, “I just want to see what your Mummy’s up to.”

 

“But you’ve just _been_ with Mummy,” Lia complains as Violet comes and begins to usher her towards the stairs. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft admits, and he does genuinely feel sorry for Lia as she begins to climb the stairs with a defeated expression upon her face. After giving his arm a quick squeeze Violet follows after her. 

 

Mycroft makes his way to the kitchen. His father is standing nervously by the door and they exchange a bit of a nod, before Mycroft turns his focus on you. You’re sitting at the table with your back to him. John is sat opposite you. The pair of you are talking softly together, though John falters and glances at him briefly, before he draws back from you. Mycroft gives him a curt nod, before he notices that you’ve both already made a start on a bottle of red wine, which stands to the left of you. You've already drunk half a glass, in comparison to John who has only sipped at his. Mycroft’s heart solidifies once more and he strides across and picks up the bottle of wine, making to take it to the counter.

 

_“Mycroft!”_ you cry indignantly, scrambling to your feet and hurrying after him. 

 

Mycroft places the wine on the counter and turns to face you. “I don’t want you drinking any more tonight,” he tells you, “People will start to think that you have a problem.”

 

“Well I _don’t,”_ you hiss, before you try to move clumsily around him and snatch up the wine again. Mycroft blocks you and looks at you with raised eyebrows. You huff out a breath and slam your hands against his chest angrily. Edwin lets out a sound of surprise and takes a step forwards. “Everything’s fine,” you tell him over your shoulder tersely, before you look back up at Mycroft. Edwin doesn’t look convinced, but Mycroft raises a hand to stop any further protests that he would have made. “I don’t like you very much right now,” you tell your husband. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft breathes as calmly as he can, “You've rather been giving off that impression.”

 

You realize that your fists are clenched and you uncurl them at the same time that you let out a huff of breath. You go on to wave your hands at Mycroft, before you turn back around and flounce over to John. You resume your seat moodily. Mycroft eyes you for a moment, before he moves back to his father and asks in a low voice, “I don’t like asking you this, but could you just keep an eye on her for one moment?” Edwin’s eyes flicker to you. Mycroft knows that he’s remembering the way that you’d hit him. “She isn't usually like this,” he tries to assure his father, not wanting to admit what he’s beginning to see developing inside you himself. 

 

“Mycroft,” Edwin says in both a pleading and gentle tone. 

 

“Father,” Mycroft’s hands jump to Edwin’s upper arms, “Everything is in the process of being sorted out, believe me. I just need you to do this one thing for me, whilst I go and make sure that Lia’s settled.”

 

Finally Edwin relents and nods. 

 

Mycroft gives him a grateful smile, before he turns and hurries upstairs. Violet comes out of Lia’s room just as Mycroft is about to push the door open. He steps back to accommodate her. 

 

“Mycroft, whatever’s happened?” his mother asks in a low tone, clutching at his arm with one hand and drawing the door behind her shut with the other. “What’s going on? Why has that doctor come back here? Did F/N and you not manage to talk? I thought with all the time that you were gone”-

 

“The opportunity didn't really properly arise Mummy,” Mycroft says, speaking in a low voice to match hers and feeling a little anxious about the close proximity of his daughter. 

 

“Then what on earth”-

 

“Something came up,” Mycroft informs his mother, clutching at her shoulders and forcing a smile at her, “But I'm sure that F/N and I will get the chance to air our differences in due”-

 

“Mycroft you remember what I told you earlier don’t you?” Violet asks, clutching at the front of his jacket and pulling him towards her. Mycroft opens his mouth. “Dear you have to”-

 

“Believe me Mummy, had the opportunity arisen then I would have taken advantage of it and had a brief conversation with F/N, before we came home. But, like I’ve said, something came up,” he informs her, drawing away from her and covering her hands with his. 

 

Violet looks at him worriedly. “Mycroft I don’t like this,” she begins fretfully. 

 

“Everything will be fine Mummy,” Mycroft says as jovially and encouragingly as he can, even though he’s not quite sure that he believes the words himself. 

 

“Perhaps after everyone’s gone then”-

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, patting at her shoulders. “Everything will be fine. Thank you for looking after Lia for so much of tonight. You didn't have to.”

 

Violet scrutinizes him for a moment. “I think that we did,” she says sadly, before she pats at his arm and heads towards the stairs. 

 

Mycroft looks after her. 

 

“Daddy?” a small voice comes, making Mycroft jerk out of his thought, before he slips into the room. 

 

Lia’s bedside lamp is still on and half her duvet has been sloppily pushed back. His daughter looks up at him from where she’s sitting up in bed. She looks worried. He hopes that she hasn’t been listening in, but even though his mind is tired that seems like the only possible answer it can draw from what he sees in front of him. 

 

“You should be underneath the covers darling,” he tells her gently, slowly pulling the duvet back over her as she lies down and rests her head upon her mound of cushions. 

 

He sinks to his knees beside her bed and she turns towards him. Her small hand traces his face, moving across the lines. “There are more there,” she breathes, looking at him in wonderment. Mycroft lets out a breath, but he thinks that on the whole he’s probably got bigger issues to be worrying about. “Did Mummy give you them?” 

 

The question makes a brief tired smile flicker upon Mycroft’s face, before he murmurs, “Yes, do you know what? I believe she did.”

 

Lia withdraws her hand and looks at him consideringly. “You’re still handsomer than all the other Daddies though,” she concludes. 

 

“Well, that’s good,” Mycroft says, and he does genuinely feel pleased about such a thing for a moment. 

 

Lia rolls onto her back and clutches at his hand. Her e/c eyes become so thoughtful and she looks so much like a younger version of you in that moment that it makes Mycroft’s heart pang. “What’s going on Daddy?” she asks, finally turning her head back to look at him. “I don’t understand why you had to go out again or why you had to keep checking on Mummy.” She’s wearing a frown as if she’s trying to figure it all out and Mycroft’s suddenly taken back years until he’s sitting in the Diogenes Club and you’re sat opposite, trying to work him out. 

 

Lia squeezes at his hand and he comes out of his thought. “Sometimes people just do silly things, things that don’t make sense,” he tries to explain to her. 

 

“But _why?”_ Lia asks, still not getting it. 

 

_“Because,”_ Mycroft says, stroking at her hand, “They love or care for someone.”

 

“Do you love Mummy, Daddy?” Lia asks without any hesitation. 

 

“Of course,” he says, squeezing at her hand and feeling troubled that she’s even felt the need to ask such a thing. 

 

Something falls on Lia’s face. She looks away from him for a moment, before she looks back and asks, “Does she love _you?”_

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, for no matter how angry you’d been with him earlier he can feel inside his heart that you still do. Lia doesn’t look happy though and Mycroft strokes at her hair. “Why do you ask such a thing sweetheart?”

 

Lia looks away and wriggles about uncomfortably for a moment. Finally she admits, “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.” Mycroft looks at her. Lia’s eyes fix on his too, before they look away again. “All the other Mummies and Daddies seem to kiss more than you do.” Mycroft swallows, feeling uncomfortable. “Or they make fun of each other to show that they like each other like you said Grace’s Mummy and Daddy do once when I didn't understand and thought that they were having an argument.”

 

Mycroft can’t help but think that the relationship between Mary and John might be different after tonight, but when he realizes that Lia’s fallen silent and is now awaiting his answer, he comes back to life and murmurs, “Mummies and Daddies have different ways of expressing their love for one another sweetheart, but you must always know that Mummy and I love each other very much and that the both of us love you very much too.”

 

Lia looks reassured for a moment, before her face falls into a frown as she looks away again. “Mummy got cross with me tonight.”

 

“I’ve heard darling,” Mycroft squeezes at her hand. “I’ll be talking to her about that.”

 

“I wish Mummy was more like Grandma,” Lia huffs out, staring at the ceiling. 

 

Mycroft feels a pang hit his heart. “Grandma’s a remarkable woman,” he begins carefully, “But if you remember what I told you yesterday then you’ll know that Mummy’s pretty remarkable too.” Lia nods, and when she looks at him again Mycroft can tell that she’s growing more and more tired by the way that her eyelids droop after only a moment of fixing upon him. “Try and get some sleep now,” he says, stroking at her hair. She nods, once more too tired to speak, and Mycroft gets slowly to his feet, before he bends down again, so that he can kiss her on the forehead. She gives him a sleepy smile, before she turns her back on him and closes her eyes. Mycroft switches off the bedside lamp and moves out of the room quietly. 

 

He pads downstairs to find that his parents are gone and it is just John and you that remain in the kitchen. A frown returns to his face when he sees that the now nearly empty bottle of red wine is back on the table. He can imagine that you’d gone to fetch it from the counter obstinately as soon as his parents had left. But a bigger scowl forms upon his face when he sees how you’re slightly hunched over in your seat and leaning forwards, showing that you’re already a little worse for wear. Not to mention when he sees how you’ve got your hand on top of John’s. Mycroft clears his throat to announce his presence and John pulls his hand out from underneath yours and straightens up. You stay as you are, and your hand even tries to seek John’s again, fumbling a little against the table, before John gestures with his eyebrows that you should look behind you. 

 

You do so, and as soon as you become aware that it’s Mycroft there, you lean back and say, “John was just telling me that he doesn’t know how Mary could have done such a thing, _or_ covered it up for so long,” in a slightly slurred voice. 

 

_“Fascinating,”_ Mycroft breathes dispassionately, before he looks at John and murmurs, “I’d rather that you left now. It’s late and I still need to talk to F/N, before we retire.”

 

“O-Okay,” John nods numerous times in a silly fashion, looking a little tipsy. He swipes something up off the table and stows it in his pocket, before he stands up clumsily. 

 

Mycroft winces as the chair scrapes back with a squeak. 

 

“No, don’t go John,” you say, reaching across towards him. John looks anxiously between Mycroft and you. “We can have another drink.”

 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for either Dr. Watson and you to drink any more tonight F/N. You've had quite enough already, and if Dr. Watson drinks any more than he might not be able to leave safely.”

 

“Let him stay then,” you say, much to Mycroft’s displeasure, waving a hand and hiccoughing a little. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a nice drink with a good friend.”

 

Mycroft scrutinizes you for a moment, before his eyes go to John’s. 

 

John might be a little drunk, but he knows exactly what message Mycroft’s trying to convey. “No,” the doctor says, stumbling around the table, “I think I’ll go now, but thanks anyway F/N.” He pats you on your shoulder, which only makes Mycroft’s eyes narrow, before he nods at the British Government and takes his leave. 

 

You slump back a little in your chair and Mycroft waits for the click of the door closing behind John to come, before he moves forwards. 

 

“You didn't have to be so rude,” you comment, as your husband ferries the bottle of wine back to the counter. Mycroft doesn’t say a thing. You huff out a breath. “John said that Mary gave him a USB stick. He showed it to me. It was tiny. But apparently that tiny device has everything that he could ever want to know about Mary’s old life on it. He was trying to figure out whether he should look at it or not. Can you imagine how hard it must be to make that choice? She didn't even have the guts to tell him.”

 

“She still did more than you’ve managed,” Mycroft turns back to face you with folded arms. 

 

You straighten up and look at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“I _mean,”_ Mycroft says emphatically, “That you won’t even admit that you have a problem.”

 

“That’s because I don’t,” you say, standing up clumsily. Something seems to slosh inside your belly and you think that you might be sick. You steady yourself and let out a belch. Mycroft raises his eyebrows. You blow out a frustrated breath as you walk across to him. “I don’t see what’s wrong in me just having a drink with John, especially when we've both found out that are partners are devious, lying bastards.”

 

“If you won’t admit that you have a problem for me then at least admit it for the sake of our daughter”-

 

_“Our_ daughter,” you exclaim, “Doesn't give a damn about me.” You try and snatch the wine bottle up instead of looking at him. 

 

“F/N you know that’s not true,” Mycroft says, trying to prise the wine bottle from you. But you still manage to chug a great deal of it down and spill some of it over yourself at the same time, before you lower it and cling onto it stubbornly just in case you should fancy some more. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft mutters in alarm as you begin to mumble incoherent words of protest and attempt to jerk him off the bottle, “F/N you’re going to”-

 

_SMASH!_

 

The shards of the wine bottle go everywhere as it hits the floor and Mycroft and you both stagger back, whilst a pool of crimson flows on the floor between you. Mycroft and you both stare at it in a transfixed fashion for a moment, before Mycroft shakes the red droplets that are now clinging to the tips of his fingers off, looks at you and says, “If you’re fine then go upstairs.”

 

“I”-

 

_“Now_ F/N,” Mycroft growls. 

 

You hesitate just a moment longer, before you turn, stagger over some of the mess and then somehow manage to trip over your own foot. You fall to a heap upon the floor. 

 

“Oh heavens above!” Mycroft cries in an exasperated fashion at the same time that a little voice asks, _“Daddy?”_

 

Mycroft’s eyes go to the door at once. Lia’s standing there in the same pyjamas that she’d been wearing earlier, clutching at her brown toy dog-fittingly named Redbeard-and looking from him to the pool of wine and glass and her bedraggled Mummy who’s now muttering something incomprehensible, whilst she sways in place on the floor. “Go back to bed Lia.” 

 

“W-What’s wrong with Mummy?” she asks, her eyes wide as she stares at you.

 

“Nothing darling,” Mycroft says, before he glances at you. Your legs are off to the side of you, your hair’s a mess and your eyes are unfocused. Mycroft senses that even his seven-year-old daughter will have a problem swallowing what he’s just told her. “Mummy’s just a little tired. She needs to go to bed. Go on now”-he waves a hand at her-“I’ll be up as soon as I get this mess cleared.”

 

“B-But”- Lia begins, her eyes darting between her parents as she steps forwards. 

 

All Mycroft’s eyes seem suddenly able to see is her bare feet. _“No_ Lia,” he says urgently. His daughter flinches. Mycroft inwardly curses himself. “It’s not safe,” he explains to her. She nods warily and steps back. “Let me come across to you,” he breathes, before at her nod he makes his way carefully to her. He tries to shield the sight of you from her as he crouches before her. “Now Lia,” he says softly, putting his hands upon her shoulders. “I want you and Redbeard”-he glances momentarily at the toy-“To go back upstairs and wait in your room for me. Can you do that? I won’t be long.”

 

“But Mummy’s all right?” Lia checks. 

 

“Yes, she’s fine,” Mycroft tells her, feeling all the more annoyed with you when you begin to sing drunkenly behind him, though he tries not to show such a thing on his face. 

 

Slowly, and looking more reassured, Lia nods. 

 

Mycroft straightens up as she turns and makes her way back to the stairs, before he turns back to you. He decides that the sooner he has you out of his sight the better, so he goes across and helps heave you to your feet. 

 

You struggle against him, more annoyed that he’s forced you to cut off your singing than anything else. “Get off, I don’t need”-

 

“F/N be quiet and just accept my help for once,” he growls frustratedly at you, forcing you into silence. 

 

Seeing that you’re not going to struggle Mycroft lifts you carefully up into his arms and begins to carry you towards the stairs. 

 

You seem suddenly transfixed by him, wrapping your arms around his neck and gazing up at him out of wide eyes. Something softens in his heart even though he tries to keep it from doing so. He’s angry and embarrassed about your behaviour, _especially_ about Lia witnessing it, but when you close your eyes and tuck your head underneath his, he finds it impossible not to remember why he loves you. 

 

He’s about halfway upstairs when there’s a soft sound of movement. In the next moment Lia’s looking down at you both. 

 

Mycroft tightens his hold on you and grimaces. “Go back to bed sweetheart,” he tells her.

 

Lia doesn’t move. “Why can’t Mummy walk?”

 

“She can darling,” Mycroft huffs out, adjusting his hold on you. His breath flutters against your skin. “She’s just tired like I said. It’s easier this way. Go back to bed.” 

 

Finally Lia retreats back to her bedroom. 

 

Mycroft makes it to the landing, staggers to the bedroom door, which he nudges open with his foot and finally lowers you down onto the bed. He gets a cloth and scrubs the wine off you, before he helps you to change into your pyjamas. He has to push and wrestle with you somewhat to get the duvet over you, before he’s able to finally step back and recover. 

 

He looks at you. You’re on your side, pulling the pillow down closer to you with one hand and looking for all the world the perfect picture of innocence. “You’re going to be the death of me my dear,” Mycroft breathes, before he kisses you softly on the forehead. You wriggle at his touch, before you settle back down again. He looks at you for a moment, feeling both concern and love inside his chest, before he withdraws and pads out of the room. 

 

He thinks that it’s probably best that he sees Lia, before he goes back to the kitchen to clear everything up, so he pads into her room again. 

 

She’s sitting up, holding her toy dog close to her chest and rocking back and forth anxiously. His heart goes out to her. 

 

“Oh Lia,” he murmurs, scooping her up into his lap as he sits down upon the bed. “It’s all right my love. Come.” He holds her securely to him and she snuffles against his shoulder. A couple of stray tears leak out of her eyes. “It’s just been a very long day for you hasn’t it Lia?” Mycroft asks, brushing at her hair. She nods against him. “What with school and then Grandma and Granddad visiting unexpectedly and Dr. Watson too. It messed up your timetable didn't it? But everything’s all right now I promise, and I don’t want you to go worrying about anything at all. I just want you to have sweet dreams tonight.”

 

Lia nods and prods at the collar of his jacket, before she fingers at its collar. “Why was there a mess on the floor Daddy?”

 

“It was an accident sweetheart,” Mycroft informs her, before he adds, “I'm sorry if it frightened you. I know that you’re tired and that you need your sleep.”

 

“Mummy?”

 

“Mummy’s fine. Mummy loves you, Mummy loves me and Mummy is fine,” Mycroft tells her steadily. 

 

Lia nods and finally allows Mycroft to slip her back underneath the covers. He kisses her on her forehead and her eyes slide shut. 

 

*

 

That’s not the end of the night’s drama though. You find yourself getting up twice to be sick and Mycroft tosses and turns restlessly, worrying and fretting about what seems to be happening to you. 

Lia sleeps obliviously on. 

 

* 

 

You wake that morning to the sound of Mycroft pulling back the curtains with a loud crack. You let out a groan as your eyes open blearily. Mycroft clears his throat and the noise sounds more like it’s coming from a lion than a man. You pull a bit of a face and lift your head up at the same time that Mycroft walks back around the bed, so that you can see him. He’s wearing a rather severe expression in his blue eyes and he folds his arms as he looks down at you. You rub a hand across your forehead. Your head is in agony. You notice that he’s left a glass of water and some paracetamol on the bedside cabinet and you feel suddenly grateful. “Wha-What are you doing?” you ask him. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat again and you wince. “Taking our daughter to school since you’re still too intoxicated to do so,” he answers. 

 

You frown and struggle into a sitting up position. You sip at some of the water, before you return it to the cabinet and your hands punch clumsily at the sheets, which seem determined to wrap around you. “That’s not fair.”

 

“I expect that’s the way that Lia felt when you lost your temper with her yesterday,” Mycroft murmurs. 

 

You frown, before you try to defend what you’d done when you say, “She needed someone to tell her off. She kept pestering me and going on and on about when she could see Sherlock.”

 

“She was worried F/N,” Mycroft says, turning around, before he looks back over his shoulder at you. “As she had every right to be.” 

 

“Well I'm sorry that I can’t be the perfect parent like you can, but I just can’t. I haven’t got it in me. Anyway, if you’d just woken me up”-

 

“I shouldn't have _had_ to wake you up,” Mycroft interrupts you curtly, spinning back around. “Waking up should just be something that you do automatically because you have a responsibility to take Lia to school. Waking up should not be an issue for you, and nor would it have been if you hadn’t of drunk so much last night.”

 

“Again, I'm sorry for not being the perfect parent,” you say as your fingers scrape across your forehead, “But I already have a headache, I don’t need”-

 

“Tough,” Mycroft mutters, using the word that you’d used on him just days ago. He goes across and whips the duvet off you. You groan in complaint as the cold air embraces you. “I didn't need you drinking last night and I most certainly didn't need you making an absolute fool of yourself in front of our daughter.”

 

“I wouldn't worry,” you say, pulling the duvet back over you, “You’re probably even more of her favourite now.”

 

“This has got nothing to do with favourites,” Mycroft hisses angrily like a worked up goose, thrusting his face in front of yours. You blink at him in astonishment. “This is about you being irresponsible.”

 

You draw back from him. If you’d been standing up then you would have put a hand on your hip. “So I let my responsibility slip for one night, so wh”-

 

“One night is one night too many,” Mycroft huffs, withdrawing from you and pacing back and forth alongside the length of the bed. “You have a daughter. She’s seven. It would have been bad enough if you’d pulled a stunt like this when it was just us, but to have done so in front of her”- he lets out an anguished breath-“You’re supposed to be a role model for her. Someone she can look up to”-

 

“Would you just listen to me for one moment? I said that I'm not the perfect parent and I wasn’t last night because finding out that you know nothing about someone you thought you knew, someone you’ve trusted with your _whole_ family, hurts!” 

 

“Oh F/N,” Mycroft scoffs, “You might be a little bit upset about Mary”-your eyebrows rise incredulously at him, but Mycroft just ignores them-“But I can guarantee that your behaviour last night had very little to do with her. You just used it as an excuse to drink, so that you could try to forget about your own problems.” He moves to the door and puts a hand on the door handle. 

 

“Maybe I did!” you yell at him, “Maybe I had to drink because I'm fed up with feeling like I'm a third wheel in this house, like I don’t even matter”- you break off in a sob as your face crumples and you look down again. 

 

Mycroft looks back at you in astonishment. He’d gotten the sense that you were unhappy, but he’d had no idea just how deep your feelings stretched. Before he can do anything more than open his mouth however a persistent voice calls, “Daddy! If we don’t leave now then I'm going to be late!”

 

Mycroft’s mouth opens and closes as he falters. His hand shifts against the door handle. 

 

_“Go,”_ you tell him resentfully. 

 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he tells you. You nod and Mycroft watches for a moment as you slump back down into bed and turn over onto your side. You've got your back to him, and for a moment Mycroft, sensing how hurt you feel, doesn’t want to leave. 

 

“Daddy did you hear me?” Lia cries, her voice slightly louder. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath and his hand fumbles against the door handle. He leaves the room a moment later. 

 

*

 

“I like it when you take me to school Daddy,” Lia announces when they’re in the back of one of Mycroft’s black cars and trying to make progress through the traffic. She peers up at him with a smile. 

 

Mycroft hums, feeling a little awkward. “I'm sure that Mummy will be taking you as usual tomorrow, and she’ll be picking you up later of course,” he tells her. 

 

Lia doesn’t look particularly happy about that. “I wish you could pick me up and take me to school every day Daddy,” she says. 

 

Mycroft does not say anything to that. He just frowns. He’s beginning to realize that somewhere and somehow down the line things have gone very wrong at home without him even realizing that they had. 

 

Neither of them speaks again until the black car finally pulls up close to the school gates. Harry the driver clears his throat as if to announce their arrival. “Off you go then. Have a good day,” Mycroft says a little awkwardly to Lia. He’s not sure what you usually say to her when you drop her off. 

 

Lia slips off her seatbelt and puts on her blue and white backpack. Charms dangle from the zips. One is of a skull, the other of a chemistry vial. A little nod to her Uncle. More than that however she doesn’t move.

 

Mycroft looks down at her with a frown. _“Lia?”_

 

Finally she looks back up at him and says, “Can you walk me to the gates Daddy?”

 

Mycroft swallows and his brow furrows. “Is that something that Mummy would usually do?” he asks. 

 

Lia nods and Mycroft slips off his seatbelt without a word. Lia smiles and he returns it briefly, before they both get out of the car. He takes her hand in his and swings them back and forth a little as he guides her to the gates. Lia seems to become more happy and relaxed. But Mycroft stiffens when a tall woman with her light brown hair lifted up into tight curls beneath a fashionably lopsided hat that looks more appropriate for a wedding than a school run, a pearl necklace around her neck and a fur stole comes charging out of the gates. She stops when she sees them and raises a hand to her chest as if they've given her much of a fright. Mycroft tightens his grip on Lia. 

 

_“Oh!”_ the woman says, “Are you running late too? I was behind with my Jonathan and Katie this morning. Why they’re doing so many extra-curricular activities at the moment that we had to run through them all again.” Mycroft assesses her with his eyes. “I'm Mrs. Potherwaite-well-no, not really Mrs. I suppose any more,” she gives him a bit of a languid smile and Mycroft raises his eyebrows out of politeness. “I lost my husband a while back, but I still find it so hard to call myself anything else.”

 

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Mycroft murmurs, whilst Lia looks in between the pair of them curiously. 

 

Mrs. Potherwaite, or whatever she’s actually called, waves a hand. Her eyes fix beadily on him. “You must be Mr. Holmes?” Mycroft nods. She offers him her hand and he grasps at it gently. “I must admit that I had no idea that F/N has been hiding such a fine specimen of a husband like yourself.” Mycroft feels suddenly most embarrassed and a flush creeps to his neck without him being able to help it. Lia opens her mouth. “It must be so hard for you dear,” Mrs. Potherwaite continues, slipping her hand out of his and making to stroke just beneath his shoulder, “With a young wife like that. I bet she’s always asking you to buy her things”-

 

“Not at all,” Mycroft’s quick to defend you. 

 

“With a young, demanding daughter too who clearly takes after her mother more than you,” Mrs. Potherwaite goes on with a thoughtful sigh, as if Mycroft had not spoken. “Katie tells me that Lia’s always getting into scrapes with the other children. Such a naughty child! Though I'm sure that you can be quite naughty too when the situation demands it Mr. Holmes,” she flutters her eyelashes at him. 

 

The blush spreads to Mycroft’s cheeks, before his hand tightens upon his daughter’s and a frown makes its way across his face as he takes in more of what Mrs. Potherwaite’s just said. “Lia’s got autism Mrs. Potherwaite. She is not just being naughty,” he tells her. 

 

“Oh,” she squeezes at his arm, “You mistake me. I didn't mean any harm by the words. I was just saying that it must be hard for you with all those demands on your time, that’s all. I know from single-handedly raising mine that it’s not always easy.” She looks at him with a gaze that goes from hard to soft. Her thick brown lashes frame her eyes. 

 

Mycroft swallows, not knowing quite what’s happening, but sensing that he needs to make a quick exit. “It was nice to meet you Mrs. Potherwaite, but I'm afraid that I really must let Lia inside now. The bell’s about to go.”

 

“Of course, of course dear,” Mrs. Potherwaite says as Mycroft slowly begins to guide Lia past her. “We really must get together some time,” she says, turning slightly as he draws level with her and sliding a hand against the side of his shoulder. Her fingers are as thin and dainty as spider’s legs inside her white gloves. “I'm always chatting to young F/N, trying to give her tips you know.”

 

His curiosity peaked; Mycroft steps forwards, before he turns back to face her properly again, one of his arms sliding around Lia’s shoulders. _“Tips?”_ he says at the same time that there comes a chiming noise. 

 

Mrs. Potherwaite nods, looking suddenly triumphant. “Yes dear. I think she finds being a mother hard sometimes. Well,” she shrugs, “I expect that she would, wouldn't she? Being so young and all.”

 

Mycroft finds himself studying the woman again, before he comments, “F/N is really not all that young you know, not compared to some mothers.”

 

“Still,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, looking momentarily ruffled as she draws her stole tighter around her, “Compared to you and I”- she breaks off. 

 

Mycroft, getting her meaning, nods. 

 

“Daddy the bell,” Lia says, tugging at his jacket. 

 

Mycroft half-looks at her, before he properly takes in her words. “Yes, of course,” he starts. He looks back at Mrs. Potherwaite. “Perhaps you could come over for a meal sometime?”

 

“Why, what a lovely idea,” Mrs. Potherwaite says in a gushing tone, “I’ll discuss the specifics of it with F/N then when I next see her,” she adds, squeezing at Mycroft’s arm, before she makes her departure. 

 

_“Daddy!”_

 

“Yes, all right,” Mycroft says, moving to open the gate for her. Lia looks at him with a pout upon her face. “Well, in you go sweetheart,” Mycroft tells her encouragingly, not knowing why she’s looking at him like that when he’s just done as she wanted him to. 

 

“But I’m late now,” Lia protests, “You have to take me to my class and explain or I’ll get into trouble,” she goes on with the air of explaining something obvious. 

 

_“Oh,”_ Mycroft murmurs, before he decides that he better do as she says even though he’s really running quite late for work. He grabs at her hand and leads her through the gates.

 

“I think that woman liked you Daddy,” Lia says as she hurries to stay with him, whilst they move quickly across the playground towards the old, but respectable brown school building in front of them.

 

“Yes, I'm sure she’s very nice,” Mycroft says distractedly as they move inside. 

 

“My locker’s further down here Daddy, and my class is just beyond that,” Lia says, pointing both things out with her free hand as she begins to tug him down the corridor with her other. 

 

“I see,” Mycroft says, before he lets out a whoosh of breath as they come to a sudden stop outside Lia’s classroom door at the very same time that someone pulls the door open and nearly runs into them. Mycroft lets go of his daughter’s hand automatically to catch the young and, very pretty, he notices, woman. She pulls back from him as her mouth opens and closes, her eyes widen and a blush forms upon her cheeks. Her h/c hair is tied back in a ponytail and as he holds her Mycroft is taken back to the masquerade ball all those years ago and to when his hands had touched your waist for the very first time. 

 

“Wow, nice catch Daddy,” Lia says appreciatively, breaking the moment, and Mycroft lets go of the woman’s waist hurriedly, drawing back with a clearing of his throat. 

 

“Sorry,” the woman blushes, fiddling with her hair and looking at him only momentarily, before her eyes go to Lia. “You’re just in time,” she forces a smile upon her face, “We were just about to do the register, come in, come in,” she extends her hand encouragingly. Lia eyes it for a moment, before she lifts to put a hand around Mycroft’s waist and pushes her head close to his leg. Mycroft’s arm goes protectively around her shoulder, before he rubs soothingly at her hair. 

 

“Can Daddy come too?” Lia finally asks in a small voice. 

 

Mycroft’s hand stops moving. “I have to go to work Lia,” he informs her. 

 

The teacher looks at him sympathetically, before her gaze goes to Lia again. “You’ll be able to see your Daddy lots when you go home later I'm sure”-her eyes flick to Mycroft and she gives him a shy smile. Mycroft gives her an indulgent one in return-“But we've got lots of fun things to do today that I'm sure you’re really going to enjoy, story time for example.” 

 

Lia looks up at Mycroft for reassurance. 

 

“I’ll see you later,” he informs her, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. She nods, before she finally leaves his side, squeezes past the teacher and joins the class. The teacher makes to do the same, but before she can Mycroft grasps loosely at her wrist. Her skin feels soft and cool to his touch. She looks up at him in surprise. “I'm sorry, it’s just that you need to know that Lia might be more tired today. Usually she has a timetable that she sticks to when she’s at home, it makes her autism more manageable you know, but due to unforeseen circumstances, which happened last night she couldn't follow it yesterday. I fear that she lost some sleep because of it.”

 

“Thank you,” the teacher nods, and they exchange a brief smile with each other again, before they go their separate ways. 

 

*

 

The car journey to work goes smoothly until Mycroft’s phone rings with a call from Mummy. 

 

“Hello?” he says after picking it up reluctantly. 

 

“Oh good Mycroft you’re there. I was worried that you might be busy at work and wouldn't answer. Are things better between F/N and you now? Did you get a chance to talk to her?” Mycroft hesitates. _“Mycroft?”_ Violet pushes, and her voice is full of a high-pitched kind of concern. 

 

“Things were a little hectic for us to get much chance to last night Mummy. Once Dr. Watson left F/N was concerned with checking in on Lia and making sure that she had all her things ready for school and such”-

 

“But this is your _marriage_ Mycroft,” Violet protests, sounding aghast. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, his voice coming out strained, despite the fact that he tries to keep it even.

 

There’s a strong pause from Violet’s side, and Mycroft wonders if she suspects that he’s not being honest with her. Thankfully, in the end, she seems to go along with his story, or hope that, that is the truth at any rate when she suggests, “Tonight then?” 

 

“Yes Mummy,” Mycroft blows out a breath, “I'm sure F/N and I will get the chance to speak properly about things tonight.”

 

“Make sure that you do,” Violet pushes, “And if you want someone to look after Lia for a few hours or an evening then you’re to give us a call.” 

 

“Yes Mummy,” Mycroft says diligently, before he comes off the phone a moment later. 

 

He spends the rest of the journey with his mind swirling between thoughts of Lia, you and the whole sorry affair of last night. He even winces as he remembers the wine, you on the floor and Lia walking into such a sight. His fists clench and he feels a worried kind of annoyance. He has to do something. 

 

*

 

As soon as he gets to work however he has very little time to think of either Lia or you until he gets a call around four that afternoon to say that Lia still hasn’t been picked up. He tries to ring you to see what might be the problem, but it goes to the answer machine each time he tries. Feeling worried he tells Anthea to re-arrange his final appointment of the day and, after a hurried tidy-up, goes to pick Lia up from school himself.

 

*

 

“Why didn't Mummy pick me up?” Lia asks once Mycroft’s gone through the embarrassment of explaining to the teacher from earlier that he doesn’t know why you haven’t picked Lia up and thanking her for calling him. She’d taken his words normally enough, but Mycroft had barely been able to look her in the eye. 

 

“I don’t know,” he confesses, stroking a little agitatedly at his daughter’s hair, “But I'm sure that there’s a good explanation.” At least he _hopes_ that there is, he thinks, feeling on edge. 

 

*

 

Once they get home Mycroft leads the way inside after unlocking the door. The house seems silent and empty. Mycroft wonders if you’ve had to go out, before he senses that you’re still there. A prickle of unease fills him. 

 

“Where’s Mummy?” Lia asks, slipping off her rucksack. 

 

“”I don’t know,” Mycroft murmurs. He looks down at her. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and make a start on your homework? I’ll be in, in a moment to sort out a snack for you.”

 

“Can I take a break first Daddy?” Lia asks, looking up at him imploringly. Mycroft looks down at her with his brow furrowed. He’d rather that she just did what he wanted. “The other children were mean about Uncle Sherlock today. They were mean about him yesterday too. Did Mummy tell you?” 

 

Another burst of uneasiness flares inside Mycroft. “No, no she didn't,” he murmurs, fingering at her hair. 

 

“I wish they’d stop.” Her lip trembles and her eyes begin to fill up with tears. 

 

Mycroft crouches before her. “Don’t pay them any attention,” he urges her. 

 

_“But”-_

 

“I know it’s hard because you love your Uncle,” Mycroft admits, before he goes on to soothe, “But he wouldn't care about what they’re saying, so I want you to try and do the same okay? I don’t want to hear that you’ve been nasty back or fallen out with anyone because that’s not the right way to go about it. You have to be better than them. That’s the only way, ” Lia nods hesitantly at him. “Go and make a start on your homework. I’ll be in, in a moment.” He squeezes at her shoulder. 

 

Lia nods and drifts down the hallway with her bag.

 

Mycroft moves towards the stairs and goes up them. The bathroom is devoid of you, so he pushes the bedroom door open. You’re in bed, Mycroft can see the lump of you beneath the duvet, and he feels so astonished for a moment that he just stares at you. Even during your pregnancy you’d hardly ever gone to bed during the day and you’ve never neglected Lia in such a fashion like you have over the past few hours. He closes the door softly behind him and steps forwards. You’re turned towards him. Your hair is a little greasy and unkempt, your face warm-looking and your eyes shut. But what is the most alarming is the extent of the contented smile that you’ve got upon your lips as you hold an empty wine bottle to your chest. Mycroft feels both horrified and disgusted by the sight of you. Thank God Lia isn't able to see what he can he thinks. 

 

“F/N?” he mutters, half too afraid to speak and face the out of control you once more. The you where he doesn’t know what you’ll do or come out with next. You wriggle a little at his voice and mumble something incoherent under your breath, but do not wake. Mycroft steps forwards. You just lie there and Mycroft finds that he suddenly feels angry with you. He whips the duvet back, making you jolt blearily awake, before he slips the wine bottle out of your grasp and places it on the bedside cabinet with a clang of noise. “Have you even moved today?” he asks, placing his face close to yours. You open your mouth. Mycroft recoils a little at the smell of your breath. “Oh, forgive me, of course you did, you went to get this.” He taps angrily at the bottle of wine, making it wobble. 

 

You blink a few times. “Mycroft, why are you angry with me?” 

 

“I'm angry with you,” Mycroft hisses, leaning even closer to you, “Because not only were you too drunk to take Lia to school today, making me late for work, but I then got a phone call from Lia’s school”-Mycroft feels almost a smidgen of pleasure when he sees how your eyes widen with worry-“Asking me to pick her up after you failed to show.”

 

You huff out a relieved breath and wave a hand, before you say, “I thought you were handling that.”

 

“Don’t-lie-to-me,” Mycroft says, rocking irritably back and forth. 

 

“I did,” you attempt to make him believe you, even though you know that it is a lie yourself. The truth is that you’d felt indignant by the way he’d treated you, so, pretty much as soon as he’d gone, you’d slipped downstairs, grabbed the first bottle of wine that you could see and gone back upstairs with it. Apart from when you’d been forced to go to the toilet to both urinate and be sick it’s the only time that you’ve moved that day. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “I can’t listen to this any more, not when our daughter needs me,” he growls, withdraws from you and paces back and forth for a moment, counting to ten in his head. Once he’s done he stops and turns back to you. “You’re going to get dressed and take a shower, before our daughter sees you like that. We’ll talk later on once Lia’s in bed and you’re more sober.”

 

“I’ve got nothing to say,” you whine, feeling frustrated with him and nuzzling your head more persistently against the pillow. 

 

“Well _I_ do,” Mycroft huffs. He walks to the door. “I'm going to get Lia a snack and then make a start on dinner, which I expect you to be downstairs for. I’ll check to make sure that you’re up in ten minutes, so you better be.” He walks moodily out of the room. 

 

You let out a little groan and curse him out loud, before you stay in bed for two more minutes just to spite him. You clamber out of it and stagger to the bathroom. 

 

*

 

“Mummy why didn't you come and see me when I got home?” is the first thing that Lia asks you when you finally enter the kitchen almost half-an-hour later. 

 

Mycroft turns away from his place by the counter where he’s been chopping vegetables and scrutinizes you. You’re fully dressed and washed, but your face seems pale and there are prominent bags beneath your eyes. His own eyes then go to his daughter who’s twisted around in her seat by the table and looking at you expectantly as she waits for an answer. “Mummy’s been working hard on a script sweetheart. It’s why she couldn't pick you up from school today. It was my fault. I forgot all about it,” Mycroft covers for you, trying to keep his voice soft but giving you a firm look all the same. 

 

You look at him calculatingly, before you exchange a nod. 

 

* 

 

Things remain tense between you and though Mycroft does his best to distract Lia and make sure that she doesn’t focus on you too much over dinner, he finds that it’s a rather difficult thing to do when you rest your chin on your hand for most of the meal and only pick at your food. He can’t exactly tell Lia off either when she puts her elbows on the table. Your eyes keep slipping out of focus and you look drained. 

 

“Are you ill Mummy?” Lia asks, before she goes on at full-speed, “Sandra in my class was ill last week and she could barely eat anything. Her parents had to come and pick her up.”

 

You blow out a breath to acknowledge the fact that you’ve heard her. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes go between his daughter and you. “Mummy’s not ill sweetheart, she’s just tired from all the work that she’s been putting in recently.”

 

You grunt and Mycroft frowns at you. 

 

*

 

After dinner Mycroft gives you your space and goes over some of Lia’s homework with her, before he starts the bedtime routine. 

 

Once Lia’s safely tucked up in bed and Mycroft can tell that it won’t be long, before she drifts off into a peaceful sleep he goes back downstairs. 

 

He finds you in the living room, sitting on the settee and watching TV. He slips the remote out of your hand and switches off the TV, before he sits down next to you with a thump. 

 

“I was watching”-

 

“We need to talk,” Mycroft begins firmly, putting the remote aside. You let out a mutinous breath, but Mycroft can tell by the way that you fold your arms and shift your position that the prospect of talking to him has made you feel uncomfortable. He turns closer to you and forces you to unfold your arms by taking one of your hands in his. 

 

His touch makes you blurt out, “Just because I had a bad night and day doesn’t mean”-

 

“F/N I can tell that you don’t feel happy about the way that you behaved, so please stop acting as if you wish to defend it.”

 

You withdraw your hand from him and curl in on yourself, raking your hands through your hair. 

 

Mycroft sees the way that they tremble and draws even closer to you. He rubs at your back. “Oh my dear,” he says sympathetically. 

 

“I-I'm sorry,” you blurt out, burying your head in your hands. A moment later your body shakes with the force of your sobs. Mycroft takes you in his arms and you cling onto him, crying hard. “I'm sorry,” you breathe again, resting your head upon his shoulder. “I know-I know I’ve disappointed you.”

 

“My dear you could have not disappointed me any more,” Mycroft confesses honestly, and you hiccup and shudder against him. “Staying in bed all day and drinking when what you should really be doing is telling me what’s going on in that head of yours.” He taps at your forehead and you let out a bit of a watery giggle. He smiles as tears shine in his own eyes. “Or if not telling me then at least telling _someone._ Sally or one of your other friends. Speaking of which,” he squeezes at your arms gently, no doubt thinking that what he’s about to say will cheer you up, “I met another friend of yours today.” You look at him and your brow creases in puzzlement. “A ‘Mrs. Potherwaite?’ I wish you’d told me about her before my dear. I'm keen to know all your friends, especially when they have children Lia’s age and they could meet up to play together.”

 

“Mrs. Potherwaite?” you exclaim, drawing back from him in horror. “Mrs. Potherwaite and I couldn't be any less than friends.”

 

It’s Mycroft’s turn to furrow his brow. “She seemed to imply otherwise,” he comments, making feather light touches against your arms. “She said that the pair of you are always talking and that she’s been giving you tips on motherhood and the like”-

 

_“Tips?”_ you stand up, feeling angry, “The last person I need tips from is Mrs. Potherwaite. That-That wretched cow!” 

 

_“F/N!”_ Mycroft exclaims in horror, looking anxiously towards the door as if Lia might show herself at any moment and take umbrage at her Mummy’s foul language. “The poor woman’s lost her husband, you could”-

 

“She hasn’t lost anything! She got a divorce from her husband two years ago when he went off on a permanent jolly to Spain with his younger girlfriend. Mrs. Potherwaite’s been trying to pretend that she hasn’t lost him ever since,” you explain heatedly. 

 

“Well,” Mycroft says, caught off-guard, “It still sounds like she’s been through a lot at any rate. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a dreadful idea if she came around for dinner at some point? For Lia’s sake?” he tries to persuade you. 

 

“We are _not_ having dinner with that woman, not in my lifetime, and as for Lia you might care to remember that she doesn’t get on with a lot of people in her class, so bringing two of them around here and disrupting her normal routine would _not_ be a good idea.” Mycroft looks suddenly guilty. You narrow your eyes, reading him easily. “You invited her didn't you?” 

 

“I-I thought she was your friend my dear, really I was only trying to help. I thought the more people you had around you the better you might be to come out of whatever all this is.”

 

You turn your back on him and huff out a breath, before you turn back to him again. “Typical!” you exclaim. “I leave you to do the school run for one day and you end up inviting the woman I can’t stand the most for dinner, and I'm not even going to comment on your last statement.”

 

Mycroft pulls a bit of a face. “Perhaps one of the other mums then? Or that nice, young teacher of Lia’s?”

 

You hear something that sounds almost like admiration in his tone and your body stiffens. _“Oh,_ so despite all the so-called disruption I’ve apparently caused you today, just because you had to do something, which I do every single day by the way, you still had enough time to take in her pretty face did you? Well I'm sorry that I don’t look like that any more, but I’ve had a child and I'm getting older. I can’t help it!” Mycroft’s mouth opens. “But you know what? If you want her then you can have her! You can have Mrs. Potherwaite too, and-and even Mary since you were defending her so much last night! Invite them all around for dinner! See what Lia thinks of that!” You finish with a flourish, before you wave your hands dramatically and rush upstairs.

 

Mycroft feels like a drink after that little display, but thinking that he better sort this out, he goes upstairs and enters the bedroom. 

 

You’re changing and you hurriedly pull up your pyjama bottoms when he comes in, not wanting him to see any of your flesh when you’re feeling like this. “I don’t want you near me,” you mutter, before you get into bed roughly, turning onto your side. Mycroft undresses and slips into bed, regardless of your words. “I don’t want you near me. I don’t want you near me,” you chant, clearly becoming more and more distressed as tears leak out onto your pillow. 

 

Mycroft touches at your shoulder lightly, before he peers over it at you. “You have to stop seeing those other woman as a threat,” he murmurs, before he adds more bitterly, “I didn't like the way you were with Dr. Watson last night, but it was what _I_ had to put up with.”

 

You let out an incredulous breath. “So you’re saying that just because I acted a bit friendlier to John, who _needed_ someone last night by the way, you thought you’d go out there and make every woman like you just to get revenge?” 

 

“Not at all, but”-

 

“I would never cheat on you,” you choke out, turning to look at him, “No matter how bad things got between us.”

 

“I feel the same way about you,” Mycroft says, rubbing at your arm soothingly when he sees that both your face and hair are damp with tears. “But you worry me.” You look at him. “I think if you had a few drinks and you were with someone else, someone who wasn’t me then”- he breaks off when you shake your head obstinately. 

 

“Never ever,” you mutter, rolling onto your back. You swallow a couple of times. “I would never cheat on you.” You pause for a moment, before you ask, “What about Lia?” as you stare at the ceiling. 

 

He strokes at your hair and frowns down at you concernedly. “What about her?”

 

“I-just”-

 

“If this is about you being jealous F/N then I really don’t know how”- you turn your back on him suddenly with a thump and Mycroft realizes that he’s made a mistake in speaking. He should have just let you carry on. No matter how long it took for you to get the words out. “F/N, I'm sorry. Please explain.”

 

Silence. 

 

*

 

The next few days are tense. You take Lia and pick her up from school as you should, but Mycroft knows that you’re drinking in the day. He can smell it on you, and even though he attempts to limit your intake at night quite often you still manage to drink a glass or two anyway. Wednesday had been particularly bad because Mrs. Potherwaite had harassed you outside the school gates, commenting on the smart husband you’ve been supposedly keeping to yourself and pushing you until you’d relented that she could come around a week on Saturday. You’d drunk a lot more as a result of that and Mycroft and you had both ended up arguing about Mrs. Potherwaite coming around again, but the situation as a whole is making Mycroft feel really helpless. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s been trying to keep his own despair and your dark activities from Lia, trying to shield her and keep his mother at bay by answering her persistent questions in a diplomatic fashion, but he knows that something needs to change and that it needs to change fast. Things can’t continue as they are. Especially if you’re both to keep dinner with Mrs. Potherwaite, so, on that Friday, though he’d rather do anything but, he calls John and asks if he might discreetly come to the house that Sunday in the role of a doctor rather than a friend. He of course obliges and is there promptly at ten o’ clock.

 

Mycroft lingers restlessly in the kitchen, whilst John is upstairs with you and Lia, taking advantage of the dry, but dull day is playing with some of her toys in the garden. Mycroft alternates between pacing back and forth, looking at Lia and down the narrow hallway. 

 

Finally there’s a noise on the stairs and John appears in the hallway in the next moment, looking both serious and harried. 

 

Mycroft stops his pacing and waits impatiently by the table. _“Well?”_ he asks when John is only a couple of steps away, “Is there something you can medically diagnose wrong with her?”

 

John stops and shifts awkwardly, preferring to look at the table than at him. Mycroft clears his throat and the doctor’s eyes move to his. “I don’t want to be so harsh as to say”-

 

“Is my wife an alcoholic Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asks through gritted teeth, his chest already aching from the thought. 

 

John pulls a face, wishing that it hadn’t come to this and that he’d spotted the warning signs when he’d come around before. God knows he’s had enough experience with his sister to have done so, but he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems. “Yes,” he finally nods. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath. “Treatment?” he asks. 

 

“Well,” John considers with a tilt of his head, “There’s some medication that could be offered if F/N was to make an official appointment with her GP. She could also go to a self-help group or be offered counselling.”

 

Mycroft’s face barely flickers with acknowledgement of the doctor’s words as he considers the thing, but his insides are a mess. “I think that both F/N and I would rather that this didn't get out and become available for public dissection. Is there a more discreet method that we could try?” Mycroft asks, for surely this can all be kept quiet and hushed up, whilst you get better in private and then both Lia and you will remain protected from any public hurt or scrutiny. 

 

“Well, if you want to handle it yourselves,” John begins, “Then perhaps a slow withdrawal where F/N is weaned off alcohol would be for the best?”

 

“You think that she should not even drink in moderation?” Mycroft questions, feeling alarmed. 

 

John pulls a bit of a face, as if he’s muddling through thought, “I think that would be for the best, at least for a while.” He hesitates. “Mycroft, do you _really_ understand just how much F/N is drinking right now?”

 

Mycroft considers the question. “I know that she is drinking far more than I would like and wish in the presence of our child. Why? What has she been saying to you?” he asks. John hesitates. “You might like to remember who is paying Grace’s school fees Dr. Watson.”

 

John opens his mouth, looking frustrated, before he acknowledges, “I suppose since this wasn’t an official check-up then the usual rules about patient confidentiality can be ignored,” he says. Mycroft nods. John shifts his position. “At first, you have to understand, she was pretty angry with me once she realized that you’d called me here on professional grounds. Then she was angry with you and refused to talk. She said that you hadn’t listened to her and properly made an attempt to understand how she feels and that I’d just do the same.”

 

A muscle twitches in Mycroft’s jaw. “I think I’d prefer it if you could just get to the point where F/N discusses her drinking now Dr. Watson,” he remarks coolly. 

 

“Right,” John nods, “Well, she doesn’t seem to think that she has a problem. That’s the bottom line of it all. She says that she’s just had a rough week and that everyone’s making a gross over-reaction. She says that having a little drink throughout the day just to help her deal with her feelings isn't a bad thing and that she doesn’t expect that it’ll last forever.”

 

“That’s all very well, but she’s making no attempt to ensure that it _won’t_ be forever,” Mycroft huffs, almost making to pace back and forth again, before he asks John, “Did you attempt to get her to talk about her… _feelings?”_

 

“Yes,” John nods, “But she clammed up. She just kept shaking her head and looking all the more teary and upset, so I decided that it would be best if I left her and just came back down here.”

 

“Cutting down then,” Mycroft begins, back to business, “How would I go about helping her to do it?”

 

“Well,” John shifts his position again, “I wouldn't recommend taking all the alcohol away or locking it up. You have to have that aspect of trust between you. After everything that F/N’s been through that’s probably more important than ever, and in any case I sense that if you did that then F/N would just rebel and go out to buy some herself.” Mycroft nods in agreement. “But I would attempt to talk to F/N and draw up a clear plan between the pair of you for when she might be allowed a drink. It’s hard to monitor her throughout the day I know, but if you could come to an agreement of sorts, where you both know where you should stand, and F/N is only permitted to have one glass in the day for example until she can stop even that and a small drink in the evening, which becomes smaller, you understand?” Mycroft nods. John stares at him seriously. “Then you might, by the skin of your teeth, be able to do this without further intervention. But it’s going to take time. It’s not going to be an overnight thing. She’s going to have setbacks and that will probably frustrate you and upset her. I think, in the end, you might find that you’re better off making things more official.”

 

“I'm sure we’ll be able to cope,” Mycroft says in a rather dismissive fashion. 

 

John takes a step forward. “I understand about you wanting to keep it private, really I do. You want to protect your family I know you do. But Lia’s presence in this house, whilst F/N is going through what she is, concerns me.”

 

“I'm sure”-

 

_“Mycroft,”_ John begins, taking another step forwards, “F/N’s in denial right now. I think you both are. She’s in denial that she’s even got this issue, and even if she acknowledges it at times then it’s not enough for her to be willing to go through all the hard work that she needs to do right now. Whilst I think you’re in denial about how great a problem this is for her and what it’s going to mean for your family.” He huffs out a breath. “You've known for a while that F/N likes a drink to take the edge off things?”

 

“As do most of us,” Mycroft says tersely, and John nods, before he listens as Mycroft goes on, “I’ve known that it is something she turns to when troubled yes, but usually, like she’s more or less said to you, it is only a few days, before she’s able to find her way again. I have never seen her this…persistent in her consumption or this…defeated by anything.”

 

“I think, in that case,” John nods, “That talking to her is one of the most important things that you can do right now, whether she listens or not. Coming back to Lia being around for this withdrawal, F/N’s not going to find it easy Mycroft. She’s going to be angry. She might start yelling at you for no apparent reason, causing tension. There might be physical ramifications. Her hands might shake, she might have difficulty sleeping and even hallucinate”-

 

“My wife isn't an unfit mother,” Mycroft growls. 

 

“I'm sure she doesn’t _want_ to be,” John bows his head, before he goes on a little incredulously, “But are you really telling me that there’s been no occasion this week where you’ve been worried about her with Lia? Because I know that things must have been bad, and that it is only probably because of Lia, that you’ve called me here in the first place. This is just the beginning of the whole process, can’t you see? Is it really going to be fair to subject Lia to all of that?” 

 

Mycroft thinks of how you hadn’t taken Lia to school or picked her up one day and Lia witnessing you on the floor in a mess. He thinks of how you’ve been drinking in the days since then and of how he’s been fretting that you might turn up at Lia’s school drunk. Thinks of how he suspects that aside from taking Lia to and from school you’ve spent a great deal of your time wasting away in bed. “Lia needs a mother,” is the only conclusion that his mind can draw. 

 

John makes a sound of impatience. “F/N might not be an unfit mother in your eyes right now, but I really think that at the very least you have to have a conversation with Lia about all of this and make her both see and understand why F/N might not be able to be there for her as much over the next few weeks or why she might be acting a little oddly.” Mycroft opens his mouth. “You can’t keep this from her Mycroft,” John tells him. “I know you want to, but it’s impossible. You don’t have to say the exact reason, but you need to say _something.”_ Mycroft closes his mouth and finally nods. 

 

John leaves not long after, but Mycroft finds that his mind is haunted by the man’s words. He turns, before he moves, so that he can watch Lia. She’s sitting with her legs off to the side of her on the grass close to the middle of the garden, holding Redbeard the toy dog, along with a toy rabbit in her hands and making them bob across the grass as if they’re walking of their own accord. She looks so innocent that it makes Mycroft’s heart squeeze. He doesn’t want to interrupt her and he spends a moment or two just gathering his courage, before he slips through the open door and goes across to her. 

 

She smiles at him happily as he sits down on his knees next to her. “Redbeard’s taking the rabbit on an adventure Daddy.”

 

“That’s nice sweetheart,” Mycroft says a little distractedly, but Lia smiles at him anyway, before she kneels in front of him and makes the toys carefully climb up his side. 

 

“Dah-da-dah-daah,” Lia says at every moment the toys come into contact with him. She lets out a bit of a giggle. “Where do you think they should go next Daddy? Further down the garden perhaps?”

 

_“Lia,”_ Mycroft breathes, despite the fact that every sinew of his body is railing against having this conversation with her. He does not want it to be real. 

 

“Maybe you could go on the adventure too Daddy? They’d like that. Somewhere far away from here where it’s sunny all the time.”

 

_God,_ how Mycroft would like that. But he forces himself to say heavily, “Lia I need to talk to you.” 

 

Lia lowers the toys so that she’s pushing them against the grass instead, her small hands splayed across them. With her knees almost touching Mycroft’s, she looks up at him out of curious, e/c eyes. “What is it Daddy?” she asks. 

 

Mycroft swallows. How’s he supposed to tell her that for a while the sunny days might be few and far between? That there might not be so much exploring? How can he tell her that she’s got to be brave and older than her years now and try to understand something that doesn’t even make sense to him? She’s seven. Playing out in the garden should be exactly what she should be doing right now. He shouldn't be interrupting her and she shouldn't have to be worrying about anything. It’s not fair. 

 

She momentarily lets go of the toys and tracks the lines across his face. “You’re getting more Daddy,” she says with a shake of her head. “Did Mummy give them to you again?”

 

Mycroft clears his throat, thankful that she’s given him this opening. “It’s Mummy that I wanted to talk to you about actually,” he says. He reaches forwards and rubs at her arms. “Have you noticed anything different about her this week?”

 

Lia looks down and chews on her lip. She lets go of the rabbit toy and draws Redbeard to her lap, prodding at his floppy brown ears with her fingers. “Well,” she begins, looking back up at him, “She’s been acting a bit odd.”

 

“Odd how sweetheart?” Mycroft asks, letting go of her as his heart beats unevenly in his chest. 

 

“Hmm, well, she seems to be upstairs a lot, and when I say something to her sometimes it’s like she’s not properly listening. She’ll give an answer that doesn’t make sense.”

 

“How does it make you feel when Mummy does that?” Mycroft asks her. 

 

“Frustrated,” Lia responds without much of a hesitation, “Also kind of annoyed.”

 

_“Oh?”_

 

Lia nods and lets out a bit of a breath. “She used to tell me that it’s important to get up early, but now she keeps on getting up late herself and I keep on nearly being late for school. Also she used to ask me loads of questions on the way home, but now she just sits there. I didn't really like her asking me stuff, but now I kind of miss it,” she finishes, looking down. She starts to rock back and forth and Mycroft puts a hand over where hers is resting on Redbeard to get her to stop. 

 

“Why do you think you miss it sweetheart?” Mycroft asks. 

 

Lia shrugs, still looking down. “I don’t know Daddy,” she responds tonelessly. 

 

“Perhaps because it was a way that Mummy had of showing that she cares for you?” Mycroft suggests carefully. Lia nods with her eyes averted. Mycroft tilts her chin up to get her to look at him. His other hand goes to squeeze at her arm. “Well Mummy still cares for you very much, but she’s not very well at the moment darling and you have to be aware of that.”

 

“She’s ill?”

 

Mycroft nods and moves the hand that’s not on her arm, so that he can brush her hair back. “Yes, she’s ill,” he murmurs. Lia stares at him. “You mustn't worry. I'm sure that she’ll be well again soon, but until then she might be spending a little more time in bed and there might be days when she doesn’t feel like talking all that much. I want you to try and be patient with her, but to tell me if you feel upset by anything she does or says, okay?” 

 

Lia nods, but it’s not long before her eyes fill up with tears and her bottom lip trembles as she asks, “Is it because of the memory thing you told me about?” Mycroft shakes his head, but Lia’s lip just trembles all the more. “W-Will she die?”

 

“No darling,” Mycroft says, brushing at her hair, “She won’t die.” Lia nods and sniffs a little, looking relieved. “But what do you know about death Lia?” Mycroft asks, feeling intrigued. 

 

Lia’s eyes squeeze shut momentarily as she thinks and both of Mycroft’s hands go to her shoulders. “I-I know that it’s forever, and from Granny and Grandpa”-your mother and father-“That there’s no reason to be scared because if you’re good then you’ll go to Heaven. Though no one seems to know what Heaven actually looks like,” Lia frowns and Mycroft hums rather than tells his daughter that it is his belief that there _is_ no Heaven. “Mummy will get better soon won’t she Daddy?” she asks. 

 

“I'm sure that she will sweetheart,” Mycroft reassures her. 

 

“Then once she gets better we can go on an adventure together.”

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft murmurs, not wanting to give her too much hope or diminish it, before he shuffles forwards, wraps his arms around her and places a kiss to the top of her head. 

 

She hugs him tightly, before she releases a sharp breath against Mycroft’s ear. He thinks that perhaps he’s holding her too tightly for a moment and begins to release her, but as she pulls away from him she murmurs, “Mummy’s crying Daddy.”

 

“No darling, Mummy’s not crying,” Mycroft tells her, stroking at her hair and wondering where she’s got such an abstract idea from. 

 

“No look,” Lia says, pointing upwards towards the bathroom window. 

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows as he shuffles around on his knees so that he can peer up. He sees you standing there. You've got tears streaming down your face and you’re wearing a haunted expression. Your hair hangs limply around your face and you’re exceedingly pale. So pale in fact that you could be a ghost. Mycroft releases a breath without being able to help it, before something in his mind reminds him of, _‘Lia.’_ He turns back to his daughter. She’s staring up at you and chewing on her lip as if she doesn’t quite know what to make of you. He finds that the expressions on both of your faces scare him. “I want you to come and play quietly inside for a while,” he tells Lia, trying to keep his voice calm. Lia opens her mouth, before she apparently changes her mind and nods. “Good girl,” he murmurs encouragingly, before they both clamber to their feet. 

 

He leads the way inside, and, carrying her two toys, she follows after him. Mycroft stands back as she passes him and settles down by the table. He can tell by the way that she begins to bob the toys across the table that she’s gone back to her own world again and he feels both a sense of relief and worry. He’s not sure of how much about what he’s just told her about you has sunk in or of what her opinion is about you now. But he knows that it’s not the right time to check on such a thing either. He lets out a bit of a breath, before he goes past her and heads towards the stairs. 

 

You’re in the bedroom, sitting at the bottom of the bed as you bow your head and the tears continue to move down your face. You’re not sobbing noisily. Instead you’re just crying quietly and that frightens Mycroft even more as he stands by the door watching you. Cautiously he steps inside and closes the door behind him. “F/N?” he asks tentatively, wondering about what sort of mood you’re in. 

 

For a moment you don’t move. Then you make a sudden jerking movement with your leg as if you’re in half-a-mind to turn away from him, before you still. Mycroft swallows. “I should have been out there with Lia and you,” you begin hoarsely, scratching at your jeans in irritation, “We should have all been playing as a family. I shouldn't be up here.”

 

Mycroft’s heart glimmers with a faint hope. He steps closer towards you slowly, almost as if he’s approaching an angry predator. “You admit that you have a problem then?” he asks gently as he sits down beside you on the bed. 

 

“I'm angry with you,” you shift your position. “For calling John, for making out that I have a problem to one of our closest friends, for looking at me the way you have lately…like y-you don’t know who I am, b-but something’s not right.” You look up at him and as Mycroft sees how full of tears your eyes are and how vulnerable and confused you look the years seem to fall away and you could be back staying with him on your visit to London again and trying to figure out your memory loss. In the present your hands tremble as you both try and push your hair back and swipe the tears away. Mycroft grabs one of your hands as you lower it and holds it firmly in his, telling you that he’s going to be there for you whenever you should feel like talking again. You nod gratefully, squeeze at his hand and clear your throat a little. You look away as you say, “I-I don’t understand what’s going on with me or why I feel like this. Like something’s gone wrong inside of me.” You wave your free hand a little, fanning your tears. “The closest thing I can relate it to is when I was in Wales all those years ago after I first had my memory loss. This blackness and all these feelings that I can’t get rid of. Not knowing what to do…” you look at him with a haunted expression upon your face, “Maybe my mother was right,” you tell him. “Maybe I _do_ have depression, or at least the capability of”- 

 

“My dear I'm sure”- Mycroft begins, turning closer to you, so that he can rub at your shoulder with his thumb. 

 

“I'm not supposed to be feeling like this!” you get out angrily, making Mycroft’s hand quickly withdraw from your shoulder, before you descend into a bout of hiccups. Your hand adjusts against his. “Don’t you understand? I love Lia. I’ve always loved her, but it’s like I’ve got all these negative feelings along with that and I just can’t make them stop.” You pause as Mycroft just stares at you, not saying anything. “I know you don’t get it,” you say, looking away bitterly.

 

Mycroft chews on his lip. “Perhaps if you were to try and explain more then I’d be able to understand. Is it when I'm with her or”-

 

“It’s the way she looks at you,” you begin, growing more desperate, “Like you’re her earth, like you’re her whole world. She might never look at me like that, but if I could just have a bit more from her…” you trail off and as a couple more tears spill out of your eyes Mycroft squeezes at your hand. “I just want her to come to me when she’s got problems or even when she’s happy. Don’t get me wrong I love the fact that you have a great relationship with her. I just want to feel like there’s more of a point in me doing everything. A point in me ferrying her back and forth to school. A point in me cleaning a-and everything.” 

 

“Oh my dear,” Mycroft breathes, nuzzling against your shoulder, before he plants a kiss there. “If you needed me to help you more then you should have just told me. I know it’s difficult for me to take Lia to and from school with my job, but I'm sure I can help you more around the house. Perhaps we could get someone in during the week too if you think that would help you to stop all of this”-

 

“No,” you croak, “I don’t want anyone coming in. Some people have much larger families and they cope without anybody”-

 

“But if it’s putting extra pressure on you”- Mycroft says, stroking at your shoulder worriedly. 

 

“It’s not. It’s just all these”-you wave a hand- _“Feelings._ But I don’t want anyone coming in. You have to promise me,” you look at him severely, pointing a finger at him. 

 

“All right,” he says, raising his hands in supplication and not knowing what to do for the best, “I promise.” 

 

You nod as your throat feels tight. You swallow a couple of times. “I just feel sometimes that if I got sick, or if I wasn’t here, then it wouldn't-it wouldn't make any difference,” you choke out, hardly daring to look at him.

 

Mycroft makes a sound of great discontent, before he gathers you up into his lap. You shift until your legs are either side of his and your knees are pressed into the duvet. “Well, we have to change that,” Mycroft murmurs, “Because you have to know that it would,” he says insistently into your ear, “It would make a great deal of difference.” 

 

“God I need a drink,” you laugh in a watery fashion, pulling away from him. You realize at his serious expression what you’ve just said and it sets you off again. “I’ve got a problem haven’t I?” you murmur fretfully, crying into his chest.

 

“Yes, you have,” Mycroft states gravely. 

 

You pull away from him. “There was a time when all I wanted to do was remember and now all I want to do is forget,” you say, looking at him as if to ask, _‘How can that be?’_

 

Mycroft swallows, and seeking reassurance you push your head underneath his chin. He holds you close and begins to stroke rhythmically against your back. “It’s like I told you. Drinking and pills aren't a solution, and drinking, especially as much as you are now, isn't going to help. It’s just going to make things worse.” You swallow. He lifts his head up and you peer at him tentatively as if he’s the sun and he might blind you. “But you’re going to get better. I'm going to help you and we’re going to get through this as a family.”

 

You want to believe in him so badly. “I-I don’t know how to switch the feelings off,” you confess, looking down. 

 

He tilts your chin up just like he’d done with his daughter not so long ago. “It’s not perhaps about turning those feelings off,” he murmurs, “It’s just about managing them better and switching the situation around until you have a better relationship with Lia and you feel like you belong here. That’s all I want my dear. I want Lia, you and I to have the happiest future that we can together.”

 

“Do you think that we can?” you ask, feeling tentative as his thumb moves to push your hair back from your face. 

 

“My dear, I _know_ that we can,” he murmurs. His lips come to rest gently on yours. “We've been through worse,” he says as you pull apart, “Look at the way that we still managed to get together again despite your memory loss”-

 

“That was your determination”-

 

“That was _both_ of our determination,” he corrects you, “If I remember rightly it was you who left a message on Lestrade’s phone insisting that you had to come to London. You who properly decided that you wanted to confront everything. Speaking of confronting look at the way that you then went on to face Moriarty in that church. I’ve never been prouder of you.” He holds you tight and you wriggle pleasantly against him, your blood starting to churn with hope rather than alcohol and gloom. “I'm certain that if you can do that then you can get through this,” Mycroft urges. 

 

_“How_ though?” you ask, wanting as ever to know more. 

 

“Don’t worry,” he tells you as he lifts you up securely off the bed in his arms, before he carries you and lowers you slowly back down so that your head comes to rest just beneath your pillow. You've got your hands crossed at the back of his neck and you look at him with curious eyes as his face hovers just inches above yours, his chest almost upon you. “I’ve got a plan,” he tells you, tapping you on the nose.

 

You slowly withdraw your hands, brushing at his hair a little as you do so, before you come to cross your wrists above your head. Mycroft knows that you want more from him and that you want to make love in that moment, but it’s more important that he’s doing work which will help you away from you right now, so he only pecks you briefly on your lips, before he pulls back. You let out a little soft breath as he casts one final glance at you, before he leaves the room.

 

*

 

That night, whilst you rest in bed upstairs Mycroft sits in the living room and begins to formulate some sort of drinking timetable for you that he hopes you’ll agree with. 

 

Lia lies close by on the floor, on her stomach as she works hard on the ‘Get Well Soon,’ card that he’s told her to make for you. A ripple of the skin on her back shows even though Mycroft’s told her to pull her top down so that she doesn’t get a chill. “Is Mummy taking medicine Daddy?” she asks suddenly. Mycroft looks at her. “Is that why Grace’s Daddy came around earlier?” she goes on persistently. “To give her some medicine?”

 

Mycroft minimizes the page, slowly slips his laptop off his lap and settles it on the floor. He goes on his knees before Lia as she sits up to observe him. “No darling,” he murmurs as he brushes a strand of hair back from her eyes. 

 

Lia’s face scrunches up. “But then how will she get better if she’s not taking any medicine?” she asks. 

 

Mycroft lets out a little breath and his hands go to her arms. “Sometimes,” he begins carefully, “When a person’s sick medicine isn't always the best option.” Lia’s brow furrows. “If Mummy needs to then at some point yes, she will take some medicine. But first we’ll see if she’s able to get better through other means.”

 

“Like what Daddy?”

 

_“Love,”_ Mycroft says emphatically. 

 

“Love can make people better?” Lia asks with a sceptical incredulity about her face. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft tells her, “Sometimes love and understanding can make someone feel very well indeed.” Lia looks down at her folded piece of paper with a frown. “What is it sweetheart?”

 

She looks back at him unhappily. “My ‘Get Well Soon’ card for Mummy is all wrong,” she tells him. 

 

Mycroft glances at her, before he shuffles forwards and peers down at the card. It’s mostly a mass of colourful squiggles, but he can pick out what looks like a hospital bed with what must be your face tucked up inside it if the untidy scrawl of h/c hair is anything to go by. There’s a red cross above you and what looks like Calpol close by. He feels a pang. He wishes that it could just all be solved so easily. He looks back at Lia. She’s got that same look you get on your face whenever you think that you could do a better job. Knowing that there’s no point in arguing with her or trying to make her see that he’s sure that you’d be appreciative of the card that she’s already done, he says, “Why don’t you do another one then, whilst I carry on with my work? Once you’re done we can both take it up to Mummy together.” 

 

Lia nods, getting a bit of an excited gleam in her eyes as she finds a fresh piece of paper in her bundle and gets her crayons in order for this new piece. 

 

Mycroft smiles. She’s got your best qualities. He just wishes that he could make you see how deep the connection between Lia and you really is. He goes back to his laptop, feeling determined to get your mind less foggy, so that you might be able to have space to see such a thing. 

 

For twenty-minutes both Lia and he work in silence, with only the soft taps from Mycroft’s fingers and the hums, which come from Lia as she decides on a new colour to be heard. 

 

Then Lia pushes herself up into a sitting up position and announces, “I'm done Daddy!”

 

Mycroft saves his work, minimizes the page and rests the laptop on the floor once more. “Show it to me darling,” he urges as he goes down on his knees before her. 

 

She swallows, wanting her Daddy to be pleased with her, before she holds it up to him. Mycroft’s face twists into a smile as soon as he sees it and his heart feels lighter. Lia’s drawn a red heart in each corner and in the middle is a picture of you, once more in bed, but this time she’s drawn both Mycroft and her beside you. There’s speech bubbles coming from them both and they too have hearts in. “We’re telling Mummy how much we love her Daddy,” Lia explains seriously, before she opens the card up. Inside she’s written: _To Mummy, get better soon, love Lia._ The words have been done in her neatest handwriting and there are lots of kisses beneath. “Do you want to leave your own message Daddy?” she asks. Mycroft considers the thing for a moment, before he nods. Lia passes him the card and he selects a blue crayon from her pile. He shifts back so that he’s got his back resting against the settee and his legs drawn up in front of him. He chews on his lip and writes: **Get well soon my beautiful wife. With much love, Mycroft.** He leaves a single kiss. 

 

He hands the card back to Lia and she flips it open eagerly, looking at what he’s written with a studious intensity about her face. Finally she looks back at him. Mycroft swallows, not knowing what she’s going to say. “Am I beautiful too Daddy?” she asks. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath of relief. He knows how to answer that. “Yes my love,” he tells her, patting at her hand as he gets to his feet. “The both of you are my beautiful girls and I wouldn't have it any other way.” Lia looks simply delighted by his response, and she gets to her feet too, clutching at her card. “Come,” Mycroft says, cupping at her hair protectively, before he gestures that she should go up the stairs in front of him. Once she gets to the bedroom door however he calls out, “Wait Lia, just one moment.” Lia looks back at him anxiously. He pats at her hair as he joins her, reassuring her that she hasn’t done anything wrong. “I just want to check that Mummy’s not sleeping, before we go in there.” Lia nods, chewing on her lip as she steps aside. Mycroft smiles at her again, before his face becomes more serious as he opens the door softly and peers in. To his relief you’re sitting up in bed reading and looking presentable. Your face brightens and you put your book aside when you see him. “There’s someone here who wants to see you,” Mycroft says with a hint of excitement about his tone, before he draws the door open wider. 

 

Lia wanders cautiously inside in the next moment, her eyes a little wary as they fix upon you. She chews on her lip and clutches a folded piece of paper close to her chest. Mycroft puts a soothing hand on her shoulder and helps steer her to the bed. 

 

“Hello,” you say encouragingly, leaning forwards so that you can rub at her hair. Mycroft looks tenderly down at you. “I'm sorry that I haven’t been there for you much today.”

 

“Daddy said that you were ill,” she says, drawing away from you a little and pushing closer to Mycroft whose fingers begin to stroke at her shoulders. 

 

You withdraw your hand from her and sigh. Your eyes go to Mycroft. He’s looking at you a little pleadingly. You know that he’s trying to say that he had to tell Lia something. Another sigh escapes you as you think that no doubt she’s been wondering about her Mummy’s strange behaviour. “Yes, yes I suppose I am,” you huff out, looking down. 

 

Mycroft squeezes at Lia’s shoulder. “I made you this,” Lia says, no doubt encouraged by her father’s gesture, before she thrusts the paper at you. 

 

“Oh darling it’s beautiful,” you murmur as you peer down at it in wonder. Your eyes fill up with tears. 

 

“It’s not supposed to make you cry,” Lia says, sounding frustrated with you. 

 

“Oh darling,” you say, trying to grab at her shoulder, “I'm crying because its made me happy.” You attempt to grasp clumsily at her cheek. She moves back from you like a startled horse, before she whirls around and pushes her head into Mycroft’s stomach. He caresses at her hair reassuringly and watches with a troubled expression as your face falls. You open the card and read the words, trying to make yourself feel better about this latest catastrophe in communicating with your daughter. Mycroft watches your emotions waver as you read it, before he sees how your fingers trace the words. You look up at him and mouth, _‘Thank you.’_

 

Mycroft nods, before he crouches down in front of Lia. “Lia? Mummy really likes your card and is very glad that you made it for her.” He straightens up and twists his daughter carefully around, so that she can look at you again. When Lia and you just stare at each other with a lack of comprehension about both of your faces as how to continue however, Mycroft murmurs, “Why don’t we go back downstairs? Mummy needs her rest.” Lia nods and he guides her back down. 

 

*

 

That night, as soon as he clambers in bed beside you where you’ve got your back turned to him, you sniff, “I'm not sure that this is going to work.” 

 

Mycroft’s heart jumps in alarm. “Oh my dear,” he murmurs, curling up behind you and gently putting a hand on your side, “Don’t lose heart just because of one simple misunderstanding.” You make a snuffling sound against your hand. “She just didn't understand why you were being so emotional that’s all. You just have to be less emotional and more blunt with her, that’s the only way that she understands sometimes. It’s her autism you know?” he prods at you, trying to get a response. “Her Holmes genes?” You draw your knees up close to your chest. He lifts his head upward and peers down at you. Your mouth is drawn in a tight line and your eyes are nearly shut, but Mycroft can sense that instead of being amused by his attempt at humour they’re filled with both an agony and hurt that he can never hope to understand. “I'm sure that everything will be fine,” he says, stroking at your arm. He tries to think of anything that he can do or say that might make your mood lift. “If you like I can cancel Mrs. Potherwaite coming around for dinner on Saturday,” he suggests, because what with things the way they are perhaps it’s not a good idea anyway. “It’s my fault in the first place, so I don’t mind talking to her.”

 

“No,” you state adamantly as you lift your head up and your eyes burn with a sudden anger. “We’re not cancelling it now. She’d probably love it if we did and I'm not giving her the satisfaction.”

 

“But if you’re not up to it”-

 

“I'm fine,” you growl, slamming your head against the pillow. 

 

“My dear,” he protests, nudging at your shoulder with his nose, “We know you’re not.”

 

“Okay, I'm not,” you get out. Your body begins to shake. Mycroft lets out a breath, lies back down properly and pulls you close to him, wrapping his hands around your stomach. “I want to be. I want to be,” you mutter desperately, clutching at his hands. 

 

“I know and you will be. You will. It just takes time,” Mycroft attempts to soothe, but still you go on to cry long into the night and you’re exhausted by the time that you finally sink into sleep. He’s too worried to sleep himself however and so he lets go of you, rolls around and gets out of bed. He’s going to do more research and planning because you crying yourself to sleep at night is not right. You should be having the time of your life right now, enjoying being at home and playing with Lia. Enjoying family life to the full. It should not be a torturous experience and you should not be feeling as you are. He’s determined to do whatever he can to help get you through all this.


	11. How Did We Get Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You begin to take steps to help your addiction, but is it already a case of too little too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for your support. :) 
> 
> Be warned that this is quite a difficult and emotional chapter, but I hope you enjoy it. :)

You awake to find that a printed copy of the so-called twelve steps that people try to adhere to when they go to Alcoholics Anonymous is on the bedside cabinet. The last thing that you want to see is a reminder of your biggest failures right now. It just makes you feel more angry and like crying. As does the blue post-it note that Mycroft has left upon it, telling you to try and have a good day and that he thought that you might find it interesting. You get up and moodily take Lia to school, before you return, scrunch up Mycroft’s silly papers and go and have your first drink of the day. 

 

Mycroft is not amused to come home to find you sitting up tipsily in bed, whilst the house is unlocked with Lia downstairs. _Or_ to find that the twelve steps are in the bin. You can get rid of things when you’re better. Not now. He bends to get it out and unfolds it as he straightens up. “Is there any particular reason why you’ve thrown this into the bin after I took the time to print it off for you?”

 

“I don’t need stupid steps or you shoving reminders in my face of what a crap mother I am as soon as I get up,” you growl like an angry cat, tucking the duvet further around you, before you look at him out of dark eyes. 

 

“Well, if you want to be viewed as a better one then perhaps you could try spending time with our daughter when she gets home from school, or perhaps you could even stretch to making her dinner, so that I don’t have to come home and do so because her mother isn't doing what she should.”

 

“Fine! You want me to make dinner? I’ll make dinner!” you cry, ripping the duvet off you, swinging out of bed to reveal that you’re fully dressed apart from your shoes and striding past Mycroft the best that you can. He follows after you with his lips slightly parted, worried that you’ll fall on your way downstairs. You don’t however and as you go on to enter the kitchen you ignore the way that Lia looks at you in amazement. You move to the oven, switching the hob of it on, before you go on to slosh some baked beans from a tin into a saucepan. 

 

“F/N,” Mycroft murmurs, flapping around you, before he darts back when you turn to shove the jagged and now empty can down onto the counter. 

 

Lia watches the scene with her bottom lip trembling. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she does know that she doesn’t like it when you’re angry like this or when Daddy’s looking as scared as he is now. 

 

You ignore both your husband and daughter until the beans are ready. Then you tip them in their entirety into a bowl, before you go across and slam said bowl in front of Lia in triumph. “There,” you say. 

 

Lia looks between the bowl and you uncertainly. You look at her with hard eyes as if you’re personally offended when she doesn’t start tucking straight in. 

 

“Don’t touch it darling. You need something more than that,” Mycroft tells his daughter. 

 

_“Oh,”_ you turn to him. “Oh thank you, so in your opinion I can’t even feed my daughter now? Is that it? Well go on then, since you’re such an expert in everything. Feed her!” you wave one hand at Lia who begins to cry noisily. Something wavers on your face at knowing that you’ve just made your daughter cry, but you still look rather defiant all the same as Mycroft looks at you out of cold, serious eyes. Finally when your daughter just continues to screech and Mycroft keeps staring at you like that you huff out a breath, before you turn around and storm out. 

 

Mycroft goes towards Lia at once. “Shh, shh my darling,” he murmurs, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her into the living room away from the offending beans. He settles down on the settee with her on his lap. 

 

“W-Why was Mummy acting like that?” Lia hiccups as Mycroft strokes at her hair. He tries to do it both as softly and soothingly as he can, but he’s quivering with so much anger on his inside right now that his strokes come out firmer than he’d like. “I don’t like it when she’s angry with you.”

 

“Mummy’s finding things a bit difficult right now because of her illness. That’s why she did what she did tonight,” he tells her.

 

Lia rocks back and forth a little against him, before she rests her head upon his chest and sucks at her thumb. Mycroft taps at her hand lightly as a gentle reminder that sucking her thumb is a habit that she’s already once learnt to stop and should not continue. He feels like a bit of a hypocrite in doing that though when he thinks of you and your drinking. Lia wriggles a little, before she removes her thumb from her mouth. He rocks her soothingly in his arms and hums softly as she snuffles against him. Her stomach rumbles. “The timetable keeps getting messed up,” she tells him sadly. 

 

Mycroft inwardly sighs. “I know darling, and I'm very sorry about that. I know it’s not good for you. I just need you to try and be patient with Mummy right now, okay? I know it’s difficult, and upsetting, but I need you to try and be a big, strong girl about all this until Mummy can get through it…” he trails off, slipping off into thought. 

 

“The lines Daddy,” Lia reminds him, wriggling against him and tapping at his forehead. 

 

Mycroft gives her a weary smile. “Come,” he murmurs, “Let me get you something proper to eat.” As he gets up though and gently settles Lia so that her feet go back on the floor he can’t help but think that perhaps John was right. Perhaps you _do_ need greater help. Perhaps though you’re yet to make a start on the timetable he’s made for you it won’t be enough…

 

* 

 

You wake in the middle of the night, feeling cold, sad and empty. Seeking reassurance you shuffle closer to Mycroft’s side, searching for him with your hand. When you fail to locate any trace of him however despite having moved across quite a bit you roll around irritably and switch the bedside lamp on. You soon discover that you hadn’t managed to locate Mycroft because Mycroft’s not there. Nor does that side of the bed look remotely slept in. You stare at the blank space with a frown for a moment, before you get out of bed. Once you get to the landing your eyes go to Lia’s bedroom door at first. But all is dark and silent, whilst no trace of light comes from downstairs either. Your frown grows, before you pad across to the spare room that you’d slept in all those years ago and push the door open. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust but you soon realise that Mycroft’s there. You can make out the lump of him beneath the covers and faintly hear the sound of his soft breaths. Your bottom lip trembles and you find that you have to clutch onto the edge of the door. You've done this. This is your entire fault. You’re the one whose made both your husband and daughter unhappy. Mycroft’s sleeping in here because of you and your messed up insides. You've driven someone whose always tried to be so sweet and gentle with you away. Tears begin to spill down your cheeks. You let out a bit of a gasp. 

 

_“Lia?”_ Mycroft mutters, jerking up and out of sleep automatically. Your breath hitches inside your chest and you take half-a-step back. The light gets switched on in the next moment and you blink profusely. “My dear?” Mycroft breathes, staring at you. 

 

Just the fact that he’s still calling you that is enough to make you cry. “I-I'm sorry,” you splutter once you’ve re-gained your full vision, whilst Mycroft continues to look at you in astonishment. You go across to him and sit down on the edge of the bed. 

 

“You can’t go on like this,” he tells you, “You really upset Lia. She’s doing her best to understand and I'm telling her to be patient with you, but”-

 

“I’ll do better. I swear it,” you tell him, grabbing his hand and stroking at it clumsily. 

 

Mycroft withdraws and looks at you seriously for a moment. “You’ll have to,” he murmurs. 

 

“I will,” you say, wanting to get that fact across to him desperately. Mycroft nods, before he relents and rubs at your back a little. No matter how much he wishes that he didn't and that he could just stay angry with you he can’t help but want to comfort you. You smile at him in a grateful watery fashion. 

 

“I’ve got a timetable together to try and encourage you to stop drinking,” he announces tentatively. 

 

Your face falls. “You want me to stop?” 

 

Mycroft swallows, before he both looks down and off to the side of you, considering his words. “I think it might be a good idea for you to eventually do so.” You huff out a breath. He glances cautiously up at you. “You can’t have it both ways my dear,” he informs you, “If you’re going to get better then this might be the only way. Will you at the very least give the timetable a go?” You look at him. “To get you started?” you nod. Mycroft lets out a relieved breath. 

 

“Will you come to bed with me?” you ask nervously, treating him as cautiously as he’d just treated you. 

 

“All right,” Mycroft says softly, leaning forwards to kiss you, before he follows you back to the bedroom that you both normally sleep in. 

 

He holds onto you all night.

 

*

 

The timetable gets pinned up next to the one that Lia has on the wall to the side of the kitchen table. Mycroft’s colour coded it. Red in a particular hour on a day shows that you’re allowed to drink in moderation during that select time-often in the evening when Mycroft can keep an eye on you-whilst a clear square means that you’re not. This way it can be in a prominent part of the house without Lia actually knowing what it’s about other than the fact that it’s her Mummy’s timetable, a point, which seems to amuse her to no end. 

 

That first day you drink more than you should. Mycroft is frustrated you can tell, but again, eventually you’re apologetic and promise to do better. He lets you off. He’d been expecting you to have bad days anyway, so although it’s rather irritating that you’ve fallen so quickly, he tries to be hopeful. 

 

The next three days though you do better. The next three days Mycroft lets out soft breaths whenever he sees the woman he’d fallen in love with emerging from her cocoon of drink and isolation. Both of your moods only further lift when you hear the good news that Sherlock has been released from hospital. 

 

Then comes Saturday. 

 

Things start out promisingly enough. You wake and feel keen to help where you can, assisting Mycroft in sprucing up the place a little and attempting to make more of an effort with Lia. But, as the day goes on and the time gets closer to the arrival of Mrs. Potherwaite you grow more irritable and restless. Mycroft leaves you in charge of the kitchen for two minutes in order to go to the bathroom. When he returns it is to find that you’re sipping on a glass of red wine and looking rattled with nerves. 

 

“F/N,” he breathes, fiddling with his shirt cuffs and feeling frustrated, “I thought we agreed that you wouldn't have any alcohol until Mrs. Potherwaite got here?”

 

“I know, I'm sorry, I just”- you break off to check the time. “It’s close enough,” you relent, taking another sip. 

 

Mycroft sighs. “You've got another hour yet.” He comes across to you, untangles the wine glass from your grip and tips the remaining liquid down the sink. 

 

_“Mycroft,”_ you utter in annoyance as he deposits the now empty glass down upon the counter. 

 

He moves back to stand in front of you. “I know you’re nervous about what’s going to happen tonight my love, and I know its been a rather long day for you what with you helping me clean and such, but how many times do I have to tell you that wine isn't the answer?” He rubs at your upper arms soothingly. 

 

You look off to the side, before you look back at him desperately. “I’ve been good today haven’t I?” you ask. Mycroft nods. “Then what’s the harm in me drinking a little more than I’d planned to tonight? Just to help me cope with my feelings?”

 

“You drinking to cope with your feelings is what the problem here is in the first place,” Mycroft says, letting out a little breath and bending his head, so that he can place a kiss down upon your shoulder. He goes on to push his nose against it, before he pulls away and your emotion trembles inside you at him being so gentle. 

 

“Y-You’d hate me”-a flicker of something crosses Mycroft’s eyes-“You’d hate me if you knew what I think. If you knew exactly how I felt. You’d hate me,” you elaborate, unable to keep the fact buried any more. 

 

You fold your arms and duck your head. Mycroft’s hands slide down to your elbows, before they still there. “Please,” he murmurs, “Tell me how you feel. I want to understand. I want to help you.”

 

You begin to shake your head and your fingers tighten upon yourself as tears spill down your face. Mycroft cups at your cheeks with his hands to make you still and your eyes graze against each other’s. Yours are full of fright and uncertainty, whilst his are full of a desperate kind of love. He kisses you and your eyes flutter shut, your mind numb as he envelops you with his warmth and passion. Your hands go up and run through his hair and he lets out a soft groan, which stirs up the desire inside you. His hands slide down to your waist and you push against him, whilst he keeps you lightly trapped against the counter. Your own hands go on an adventure, roaming down to rest on the grey expensive suit jacket that he’s wearing, before they rub against the yellow lining and clutch onto the red braces beneath. Mycroft shifts against you, before he withdraws from you with a smack. His eyes fix on yours for a moment, before his lips go suddenly to your neck. You let out a gasp and tilt your head upward, your hands withdrawing now so that they can move up and grasp onto his shoulders. His lips expertly caress your neck for another few moments, before he pulls away. 

 

“I could never hate you. No matter what it is. It’s much too late for that.” His hands take yours in his imploringly and hold them between you. “Please tell me.”

 

You open your mouth, before you close it once more. You look off to the side. Mycroft squeezes at your hands encouragingly and you look back at him. His eyes are on you and they’re filled with both a sincerity, which urges you to trust him and worry. You swallow. How can you possibly tell him? Tell the loving father in front of you how you feel? You’d been a fool to allow the thing to begin to come out of your mouth in the first place. Something shudders inside you. You only realise that its escaped you in the form of a single tear when Mycroft raises his hand to brush it away. “It’s Lia,” you confess, hardly daring to look at him, “You know that I have difficult feelings towards her, but you don’t know just _how_ difficult.” He pushes a strand of your hair back and eyes you seriously. He knows that at long last this is you getting to the heart of the issue. That what you’re about to say will explain why you’ve felt the need to drink so much. “S-Sometimes when I-when I get really bad I find myself wishing-wishing”- your hands curl up. 

 

“That she did not exist?” Mycroft asks in an enquiring tone that has a distinct edge to it when you fail to go on. 

 

You nod, looking at him. His face is harder now, but you’ve known him long enough to be able to detect the anguish and sorrow that’s there also. You grasp at the tips of his fingers for reassurance as you duck your head again. “Sometimes I want to leave this house,” you confess softly, glancing up at him, before you look away again. 

 

Mycroft does not know what to do. Does not know how to respond to such words. Words that feel like they’re making a slow crack across his heart. His chest aches and aches. He closes his eyes. 

 

_“Daddy?”_

 

Mycroft opens his eyes, lets go of you and steps back so quickly that it makes you both blink and let out a breath. Both of your eyes go to Lia who’s standing in the entranceway. 

 

She’s wearing a f/c dress that you’d help her wriggle into earlier along with long white socks and dainty black shoes. With her hair tied back she looks as pretty as a picture. 

 

Mycroft seems to agree. “You look beautiful darling,” he murmurs, sweeping over to crouch before his daughter. 

 

You feel a lump inside your throat. They've only got eyes for each other and once more you get the sense that you don’t belong in this house or in this picture. You’re just a fungus on the frame threatening to creep in and both Mycroft and Lia would do fine without you. 

 

“I'm going to get changed,” you gurgle, placing a brief hand on Mycroft’s back as you move across, before you hurry out of there. Mycroft stiffens at your touch and watches you go. 

 

“What did Mummy mean when she said that she wants to leave the house?” Lia asks with a frown, drawing Mycroft’s attention back to her. “Does she not love us any more?”

 

Mycroft’s heart feels like it’s being plucked like Sherlock’s violin. “No darling,” he says, brushing at her hair. “Mummy loves us very much.”

 

“But then why does she want to go?” Lia asks, looking confused. Mycroft looks off to the side as he struggles. It’s not supposed to be like this. That’s the unhelpful but truthful thought that comes to him. He’s not supposed to know the answer to such a question because it’s supposed to be different. By and large you should have nothing to worry about. You should feel safe in this large house, protected, happy with him. Your parents should feel secure in trusting him with you. You should be helping him guide Lia through the world and you should be experiencing some of the happiest moments of your life right now. “Daddy?” Lia pushes, squeezing at his hand. 

 

“It’s her illness darling,” Mycroft says, coming out of his thought, “She’s confused. She doesn’t know what she wants. That’s why we must continue to be patient with her. Do you understand?” Lia nods and Mycroft thinks for a moment more. “Did you hear anything else that Mummy said?” Lia shakes her head, tracing the lines that are on his face. He removes her hand gently and kisses it. “Come,” he murmurs, straightening up. “You can help me lay the table.”

 

*

 

Still feeling emotional, but like you need to do anything you can in order to try and make it up to Mycroft for saying such dreadful things you end up making an extra effort with your clothing and make-up. 

 

Once you’re done you return to the kitchen to find that its been smartened up even more. A white tablecloth now covers the table and cutlery gleams in place next to burgundy table mats. By the smell of it dinner is almost ready too. 

 

“Wow Mummy,” Lia says appreciatively as she swivels around from her place at the table. “You look pretty again.”

 

You smile a little, feeling pleased in spite of what you could take to be a half-compliment, before your eyes wander across to where Mycroft’s straightening up from checking the oven. He turns to face you and his lips part a little at the sight of you in the blue dress that he’d bought for you when you’d first gone to that family dinner all those years ago. His lips soon tighten again however and your heart sinks. You should have known that dressing up would not be enough to numb the cruel, hurtful things that you’d said. You swallow and look away. 

 

Mycroft, knowing exactly what is going on through your head, which is both a change and a blessed relief these days, slips his hand out of the white oven glove, rests it on the counter and goes across to you. You look at him with apprehension in your eyes. “We’ll talk later,” he says, so that only you can hear as he makes to kiss your cheek. “But you look beautiful my dear,” he utters in your ear as he pulls away. 

 

You swallow and tears bubble up in your eyes again. You nod. 

 

The doorbell rings. You start a little and Mycroft pats at your arm reassuringly, before he moves around you so that he can go to answer it. Feeling like you should you follow him. 

 

“Oh Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Potherwaite cries as soon as Mycroft opens the door. She’s wearing a rather thick, brown fur coat; a white stole of some dead animal, dangly earrings, whilst her hair has been drawn back from her face elaborately. She’s also carrying a bottle of champagne in one chubby hand, but despite this she launches herself at him and you step aside, frowning a little awkwardly. You try and look around her to see where her children are. You can’t say that you’re looking forward to being in their company any more than you are Mrs. Potherwaite’s, but they should at least serve as an useful distraction. 

 

“Call me Mycroft please,” Mycroft says, patting at her back, before she finally releases him. 

 

“Oh F/N dear,” she says, “You must forgive me. I didn't see you there.” She pats at your hand with a false friendliness, before she lets go of it with a frown. 

 

“Hi,” you say a little awkwardly, before you ask, “What?” with a bit of a blush as she looks you up and down. “Is there something wrong?”

 

“Well,” she says, meeting your eyes, “It’s just that I wouldn't have worn that dress if I were you.” She lets out a little nervous laugh. “All those lumps and bumps on show.”

 

You bite at your lip and look down. Yes it had been a bit of a tight squeeze getting into the dress, but you hadn’t thought that you looked that bad in it. Now however you can’t help but wonder if this is just Mrs. Potherwaite being her usual bitchy self or if there’s some truth in it after all. You look to Mycroft for reassurance. He wouldn't have lied to you. If you didn't look beautiful then he wouldn't have said you did, would he? But you can tell by the rather sheepish look that’s on his face and by the way that he quickly averts his eyes that he _does_ in fact agree with Mrs. Potherwaite more than with what he’d said earlier. Feeling hurt you swallow, before you turn back to Mrs. Potherwaite and ask coolly, “Is that a badger around your neck Mrs. Potherwaite?” You know of course that it’s not.

 

“It’s a mink dear,” she says, and Mycroft shifts his position uncomfortably. “Goodness,” Mrs. Potherwaite adds, “The youth of today. They don’t know their nature at all do they?” she asks, turning back to Mycroft with a wave of her hand. Your husband opens his mouth, but before he can say anything Mrs. Potherwaite pats him on the shoulder and says, “Now Mr. Holmes, I’ve brought my finest bottle of bubbly, so let’s get this evening started shall we?” She lets out a fake girlish chuckle and pushes the bottle of champagne into his hand, ignoring his spluttering protests as she grabs at his arm and attempts to walk alongside him down the narrow hallway. Mrs. Potherwaite’s hips are so wide that Mycroft gets rather shoved against the wall, but you can’t say that you care terribly about the fact in that moment. You look away from them and look out for a moment, again wondering about Mrs. Potherwaite’s children, but unless they’re hiding they don’t seem to be present. Something you feel irritated about considering how much dinner has been made. You close the door and turn, finally following after Mrs. Potherwaite and your husband with narrow eyes. “Oh Lia dear, what an unexpected surprise,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, letting go of Mycroft’s arm at last as they reach the entranceway and see that Lia’s looking around at them curiously from where she’s sitting by the table. Mrs. Potherwaite turns back to Mycroft and finally clears up the matter of her missing offspring. “I left my two with a friend for the night. I rather thought that you’d do the same Mr. Holmes,” she says, patting him on the shoulder as if he’s been such a naughty boy. 

 

You clear your throat very loudly from behind them. Mrs. Potherwaite and Mycroft both start a little and turn to look back at you. “Lia’s never spent the night at anyone else’s before. She’s happier at home. Aren't you darling?” you say, shoving your way in between them and cupping at Lia’s hair. 

 

Lia looks up at you with both suspicion and confusion in her eyes. No doubt she’s wondering why you’re talking to her like that. “Yes Mummy,” she finally says, pulling away from you. 

 

You give her the warmest smile that you can muster to cover up the moment, before you take the seat that’s by the wall, leaving Mycroft to sit in between you once he’s ready. At the moment he’s guiding Mrs. Potherwaite to her seat, so that she’ll be sitting directly opposite him. 

 

“You seem a little over-protective if I might say so dear, but she is your first I suppose,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, tugging off her coat and passing it along with the mink stole to Mycroft. The fur tickles his nose and he blows out a breath, before he returns to the hallway to hang the two things up. “Still, it’s something that you can work on.” You look at her. She draws herself up a little and looks at you incredulously. “You do intend to have more children don’t you? Before your time runs out?” 

 

You shift a little feeling uncomfortable. This is the last topic that you want to discuss with Mrs. Potherwaite. Lia gapes at you. “It’s not on the cards.”

 

“What’s not on the cards?” Mycroft asks curiously as he comes sweeping back into the kitchen. You swallow and inwardly curse his need to know everything. 

 

“F/N was just telling me how the two of you aren't planning on having any more children, which is a great shame I must say dear,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, adding her tuppence worth. 

 

_“Ah,”_ Mycroft’s eyes go to you. He can only see the side of you but he can make out the tension that lies in your shoulders and the way that your hair hangs down over your face. “Yes,” he clears his throat. “I suppose we’re not.”

 

_“Oh?”_ Mrs. Potherwaite picks up on his uncertainty. “Do I sense a difference in opinion there?” She looks between you. Mycroft’s still looking both a little sad and flustered and you’re biting down hard on your lip. When Mrs. Potherwaite next speaks it’s in a hushed tone. “You aren't having any problems are you?” She glances at Lia, who returns her gaze with a furrowed brow. Mrs. Potherwaite looks back at Mycroft and you. “In that department?”

 

“Everything’s fine,” Mycroft says, hurriedly clearing his throat, before he quickly makes to pour you a glass of wine. He carries it across. “We’re just happy as we are.” He touches at your hand. “Your wine my dear,” he says, placing the glass in front of you. 

 

You take a few grateful sips of it. 

 

“I thought the champagne”- Mrs. Potherwaite looks at him confusedly. 

 

Mycroft’s mouth opens and closes and you feel a swelling of irritation grow inside you. “I don’t much like champagne,” you say as you lower your glass, trying to cover up the fact that you’re trying to be sensible about your alcohol intake this evening. Mycroft, feeling relieved, goes back across to pour Mrs. Potherwaite some champagne. 

 

_“Ah,”_ Mrs. Potherwaite says, her face clearing with understanding, “I expect it’s because of your age dear. You haven’t yet reached the level of sophistication that we have.” She pats at Mycroft’s hand as he settles her glass down in front of her. Lia watches them intently. Mycroft clears his throat. You frown. 

 

Mycroft pours a glass of champagne for himself and you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’d been rather hoping that to show support to you and not leave you feeling like the odd one out he’d just drink wine. Of course you’re not _completely_ the odd one out-Lia’s drinking lemonade. 

 

Mycroft proceeds to get the dinner out and you all begin to eat rather tentatively, with you feeling rather bitter and angry about Mrs. Potherwaite’s remarks so far. She’s making you feel like a child and clearly thinks that Mycroft’s married beneath him. Your hands tighten on your cutlery when you think, not for the first time this evening that she’s probably after him herself. 

 

“Mm this is lovely dear. Though if you don’t mind me saying it could have used a touch more salt,” Mrs. Potherwaite informs you, “But again that’s something you’ll work out through trial and error I'm sure. Though if you don’t mind me saying I don’t think you’ll ever be as fine a cook as I.”

 

When he sees that you’re bristling with annoyance Mycroft says, “The salt was my fault I'm afraid. Trying to keep us all healthy.”

 

Mrs. Potherwaite looks at him with an indulgent smile. “It’s very sweet of you to cover for F/N like that dear, but if she never admits to any of her faults or mistakes then how is this little one ever going to learn?” She nods at Lia. You bite at your lip exceedingly hard and your hand curls tightly around the stem of your wine glass. You’re nearly shaking with anger and you almost feel like throwing the drink at her. Perhaps you would have if you didn't need it so much. You take a few hurried sips. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat embarrassedly at Mrs. Potherwaite’s words and wonders if he should try and say something to defend you. He can sense that you’re practically writhing with anger beside him and he does so want to take more control of the situation, but a minute or so goes past and he feels like the moment’s been lost. He eyes the way that you’re stabbing at your vegetables angrily with your fork, looks at the way that Mrs. Potherwaite is smiling bracingly at you and wonders how it has all come to this. To you feeling like you sometimes wish that Lia didn't exist. To you feeling sometimes like you wish to leave the house. His heart emits a great pang and he muses some more as he continues to eat his dinner. You’d been fine at first. That’s what he’d thought. You’d both been worried and taken a little while to adjust to parenthood, and of course the fact that Lia had, had to go through so many tests and prodding had not made it any easier. But then, once you’d both come to terms more with her diagnosis things had seemed to settle down. You’d seemed tired, but happy most days when he’d come home from work and the days, months and years had just seemed to move on and blend in together. He wonders when this resentment of Lia had started. He tries to pinpoint an exact moment that should have made him sit up and pay attention but he can’t. There’s not one time that stands out in his mind, but he knows that there must have been growing signs and he feels like a failure for not having spotted them. How could he have been so blind as to what had been occurring right beneath his nose? Had he really been so determined for everything to be happy at home that he’d blatantly ignored them? He guesses that he must have been but that does not make him feel any happier. 

 

Halfway through her meal Mrs. Potherwaite lets out a sudden sound of contentment, leans back in her chair and takes a moment to look around. “Just having a moment’s break dears. I don’t usually eat food as gassy as this,” she says absent-mindedly when both Mycroft and you look at her curiously. 

 

“Well you wouldn't have had to have so much of it if you’d just brought your children along like we thought you were going to,” you mutter with a frown, and Mycroft clears his throat, before he attempts to nudge at you discreetly. 

 

Mrs. Potherwaite though much to your relief just gives you a bit of an indulgent smile, before she carries on looking around. She seems not to have heard you, or at the very least if she has not to have cared. But there is worse yet to come. “Why, those are nice timetables dear,” she coos to Lia, and both Mycroft and you momentarily freeze, before you look at one another. You look at him feeling both scared and angry, asking with rather fierce eyes why he’d not taken your timetable down. He stares at you silently, conveying that he’d rather been pre-occupied with other things and that in any case you’d been alert enough to take it down too, so you’re just as to blame. “What does the red mean in this one?” Mrs. Potherwaite asks Lia, leaning across to tap at yours. 

 

“That’s not mine. That’s Mummy’s,” Lia says, before either Mycroft or you can try to rescue the situation. 

 

There’s a prominent silence. One where your hands move underneath the table and fist up, whilst your eyes prefer to stare at the far edge of your plate than anything else. Mycroft stiffens beside you, his heart beating unevenly, whilst Lia looks at Mrs. Potherwaite confusedly, not understanding why she’s looking between her parents the way she is with slightly parted lips and a gleam in her eyes as if everything is starting to become clearer to her. 

 

“More champagne Mrs. Potherwaite?” Mycroft offers in a fake cheery voice, half-standing up as his hand goes to the bottle. 

 

She waves a hand at him and he sits back down properly feeling anxious. Mrs. Potherwaite’s eyes go to Lia again. “Your Mummy’s?” she asks with her lip beginning to curl. She is a shark in that moment, moving in on a bloody injured fish, ready to kill, and there’s nothing that anyone can do to stop her. 

 

“Mummy’s ill,” Lia says as if it’s obvious, “Daddy said that the timetable will help her get better.”

 

“That’s a nice gesture dear, but I can’t see what good a timetable would do with most illnesses,” Mrs. Potherwaite says to Mycroft before she looks at you. 

 

“F/N’s just feeling a bit under the weather,” Mycroft attempts to cover. 

 

“But the timetable?” Mrs. Potherwaite pushes, her eyes going to it again.

 

Mycroft’s mouth opens, but before he can say anything your hands begin to shake, tapping uncontrollably against the table like a fish without air because you know that it’s no good now. The secret that Mycroft and you have been trying to keep is about to be released. 

 

But that does not stop Mycroft from breathing, “F/N,” or from looking at you worriedly and attempting to clutch at your hand. 

 

Feeling sick as your heart rate increases to a rapid pace you don’t let him. “I'm an alcoholic,” you breathe, looking back at Mrs. Potherwaite. 

 

“F/N please,” Mycroft urges, for why do you have to say such a thing? More than that make it public? But you ignore him. 

 

“I'm an alcoholic. I'm a failure as a mother and a wife”-you glance sideways into your husband’s desperate blue eyes, before you look back at your guest who is practically fizzing with all this news-“And I'm an alcoholic. Those are my biggest faults. Please don’t say that I'm not aware of them because I feel them in my heart every day. I feel them in my heart right now.” You stand up, your chair scraping back clumsily against the floor as you do so. 

 

“F/N please sit back down,” Mycroft attempts to re-gain some order, hating the way that you’re standing there, your body so full of emotion as it begins to shake. Tears run down your face as you begin to lose all control. 

 

“No,” you breathe, your eyes on Mrs. Potherwaite. Beside Mycroft Lia begins to rock back and forth in her seat and he doesn’t know what to do. Should he take Lia out of there? But he senses that you need him. All he knows is that he wants this to stop, which he suspects is, at the end of the day, exactly what both Lia and you want too. “That timetable’s supposed to help me cut back my drinking. My husband-you know the one you’ve been fluttering your eyelashes at all night?-he made it for me.” Mycroft blanches, but your face is flushed with colour and your fists are tight. They shake as you go on, “Turns out that I can’t even stick to that. I can’t even help myself.” Your face properly begins to crumple and though Lia begins to wail Mycroft only has eyes for you. He gets up out of his seat, but you wave a hand to stop him from doing anything silly like trying to comfort or embrace you right now. You still have your pride. “I might be a failure Mrs. Potherwaite. I can now add the failure of being a good host to that list, but I love my husband and I love my daughter and I would do anything-anything not to feel the way that I do, so you can gossip all you like about me but remember that.” A sob escapes you, and, knowing that you can’t go on, you turn and hurry out of there, pulling away when Mycroft tries to grab at your arm. You head upstairs. 

 

Mycroft stares after you with a great ache in his chest, but he does not have much time to think of what on earth he should do next because Lia begins to howl, “Daddy! Daddy!”

 

He turns his head to see that she’s reaching up towards him, leaning out of her chair. Her bottom lip is trembling and tears stain her face. He lets out a breath, looks down the now deserted hallway one last time, turns and crouches before her. She slides into a standing position, throws her arms around his neck and cries noisily into his shoulder. He cups at her hair, stroking at it soothingly. “Hush my darling hush, it’s all right.” Lia shakes her head wildly against him and he tends to agree. Things are not all right. But he still tries to soothe and quieten her nonetheless. 

 

“It’s her age I expect,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, shifting back in her chair and folding one long leg over the other. Mycroft clutches onto Lia a little tighter as he listens and lifts his head up. He thinks that she’s talking about Lia, but when she goes on he realises that she’s talking about you. “She hasn’t grown up enough to know how to phrase her problems in a less childish way,” she informs him. 

 

Mycroft feels suddenly irritated and he realises then that he should have found the words to defend you earlier. Realises then that he should have been defending you all night. You might be an alcoholic, but you’re still worth more than this wretched woman is. Whatever had possessed him to invite her? “I’d appreciate it if you didn't say such a thing about my wife,” he says darkly, clutching at Lia even more, “No matter what you think of her she’s still the mother of my child.” Mrs. Potherwaite just looks at him studiously. If they’d been at a lecture then he may have just made an interesting point. Lia snuffles against him. Mycroft huffs out a breath. “I'm sorry,” he says; because all this isn't exactly her fault. At the same time however part of it is, so he adds, “What with the circumstances being as they are perhaps you’d consider finishing your meal and leaving early?”

 

Mrs. Potherwaite looks at him evenly, before she shakes her head. “What you need around here,” she says, getting to her feet, “Is a proper woman to organize things.”

 

“My wife”- Mycroft breathes, straightening up too and heaving Lia up with him. She puts her arms around Mycroft’s neck and is further supported by Mycroft’s hand, which clutches her close to him. “Daddy, Daddy,” she mutters restlessly. 

 

“Cannot be that person at present. Forgive me for saying so, but perhaps she never will. In any case,” Mrs. Potherwaite shifts her position, “You are over stretching yourself Mr. Holmes and making yourself ill, which is no good for this little one,” she places a delicate hand upon Lia’s back. 

 

Before Mycroft knows what’s happening she’s taking his daughter from him and settling into the chair that you’d just vacated. He expects Lia to wail and protest and thinks that he’ll have to take her back from Mrs. Potherwaite, for she’s never liked strangers holding her. In fact she’s never been particularly keen on _you_ holding her. But for some unfathomable reason she seems to accept Mrs. Potherwaite and she snuggles up against her, resting her head upon her chest as the older woman strokes at her hair. Mycroft feels bewildered by the sight. 

 

“All it takes is the touch of an experienced mother,” Mrs. Potherwaite says in response to his dumbfounded expression. 

 

Mycroft nods blankly, before he looks down the hallway. Now that Lia’s more settled should he attempt to check up on you? The idea is one that he still does not feel comfortable with considering that Mrs. Potherwaite’s in the house. In the end he just turns his chair, sits upon it and watches as Mrs. Potherwaite somehow continues to soothe his daughter. 

 

Mrs. Potherwaite looks at him sympathetically. “It must be hard for you,” she says, reaching a hand around Lia so that she can grasp briefly at Mycroft’s knee. “Juggling work and all of this.” He moves his leg away from her and nods. “I expect you might even be regretting getting so involved with her?”

 

Mycroft shakes his head, hunches over and peers through the gap in his knees. “No,” he says with a reminiscent smile, “I could never regret that.”

 

“You poor man,” Mrs. Potherwaite coos, “I didn't realise you were so in love with her.” She reaches to hold his knee again and does so more firmly this time. “There must be times though”-

 

Mycroft jerks his leg away, not liking where the conversation is going. “I think I’d like you to give Lia back to me now Mrs. Potherwaite. This dinner was clearly a mistake.”

 

She looks at him with a rather knowing expression about her face, but to his relief she passes Lia back to him and leaves quietly. 

 

“Daddy what’s going on?” Lia asks, drawing her head back, so that she can look at him from where she’s snug in his arms as they continue to sit by the table. “Are Mummy and you going to split up?”

 

“No darling,” he says, stroking at her hair, and he feels quite determined in that moment to make sure that such a thing will never be the case. 

 

“I-I don’t like it when she’s angry with everyone,” Lia sniffs, her e/c eyes full of tears. 

 

“She wasn’t angry with you sweetheart,” Mycroft reassures her. 

 

“With you?” Lia checks. 

 

Mycroft hesitates. “She was a little angry with me yes,” he says, though he thinks that you’d had every right to be. 

 

“I wish she wouldn't,” Lia says with a shake of her head. They fall into silence for a moment, before she asks, “Daddy?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What’s an alcoholic?” 

 

Mycroft’s insides freeze, before he instinctively makes to kiss the top of her head. “It doesn’t matter sweetheart. It’s my fault Mummy got cross tonight. I haven’t been looking after her the way I should have.”

 

Lia looks at him in astonishment. “But you _always_ look after her,” she protests, almost as if she’s quite fed up of it.

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. “I try,” he acknowledges when his daughter still looks at him. He thinks for a moment. “Have you had enough to eat?” he checks. She nods. “Come,” he says, jostling her a little on his lap, “Let’s get you ready for bed. I think we could all do with an early night tonight.”

 

*

 

Once Lia’s in bed and settled Mycroft clears away everything downstairs, before he finally joins you. 

 

As he slips into bed you turn away from him, but he still gets a quick flash of your red, puffy eyes and the tracks that the tears have made upon your face. 

 

_“F/N”-_

 

You draw your knees up swiftly to your chest and remain stubbornly turned away from him. There are lots of things that you want to know however and you lift your head up and half-look over your shoulder to ask him crossly, “Why didn't you defend me?” Mycroft opens his mouth. “Why didn't you defend me against that ghastly woman at any point tonight? Why didn't you support me? You could have drunk wine like me. I would have done it for you if you were in this position. I felt so stupid, like such a _child!”_ You pause as the agony rises in your voice and let out a little breath. “But more importantly,” and now is the time when you properly turn around to face him, “Why did you lie?” Mycroft’s brow furrows. “You called me beautiful,” you remind him, feeling more hurt that he’s somehow managed to forget this. “You called me beautiful, but when that cruel woman said what she did you looked like you agreed with her.”

 

“I said it because I knew it was what you wanted to hear. I didn't want to cause a fuss”-

 

You open your mouth incredulously and if you hadn’t been lying down then you would have placed your hands upon your hips. “So you lied to me”-

 

_“No…”_ Mycroft exclaims, before he quickly changes his mind when you stare at him, “Yes-I-I don’t know!” He waves a hand. “But that’s not the point”- 

 

“Well thank you,” you glare at him, “Thank you for really making me feel good tonight.” You turn your back on him. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he says touching at your shoulder lightly, but you jerk it away from him. He tries again, placing just the tips of his fingers there. “I didn't mean to upset you. You did look beautiful. You _always_ look beautiful”-

 

“There’s no point trying now,” you tell him moodily, “You've already made me feel fat and ugly on top of everything else.” 

 

“My dear no,” Mycroft breathes, clutching at your shoulder all the more firmly. He only lets go of it when you roll onto your back. “You could never be either of those things.” He struggles, trying to go back to that moment and work everything out. “If I'm honest then it was just a surprise to see you in it, that’s all”-

 

“What? A surprise that I’d made an effort?” you interrupt him angrily. 

 

“No,” Mycroft opens and closes his mouth. You look at him sceptically. _“No,”_ he says more forcefully, touching at your collarbone. “Its just been so long since either of us had a reason to dress up, but I liked it F/N. I liked it a lot. I'm sorry that, that didn't come across.” You sniff and a couple of tears dribble out of your eyes. “Oh my dear,” Mycroft says, rubbing at your shoulder, “When Mrs. Potherwaite said that I felt too awkward to say anything. I didn't want to start the night off badly. But it was wrong of me and wrong that I stayed silent later on too. I knew in my heart that she’d gone too far and I should have done something about it. I should have stuck to the wine too, I just didn't think about the effect it would have on you. Again I was just trying to keep some peace between Mrs. Potherwaite and us. I'm sorry that I got it so wrong.” You huff out a breath, too exhausted to even argue and the pair of you roll towards each other. Mycroft holds you securely in his arms. It’s not long before you fall asleep, but Mycroft acts like you haven’t and continues the conversation because there’s so much he needs to say. “My feelings don’t run as deeply as yours you know? I could never regret having Lia. She reminds me of you so much and I love her with all of my heart. But recent events along with tonight have made me wonder if perhaps we should have waited a little longer. I know that it didn't exactly happen due to planning in the first place, but, well…perhaps though you weren’t as young as some mothers are when we first had her you _were_ too young in some ways. Perhaps the both of us weren’t ready, especially for a child who has autism as well.” He releases you from his arms. You shift back a little but remain on your side. Your eyes are softly shut and you cup the side of your face with your hand. You show no sign of having heard him. He studies your face again, before he tentatively begins to stroke at your hair. His hand reaches down your side until it comes to the top of your thigh. “You _are_ beautiful.” He looks at you desperately. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you’re unhappy here. I'm sorry that I haven’t been around as much as I should. That I didn't realize the toll that everything was taking on you until it were too late. I'm sorry that I haven’t been doing enough for you. I'm sorry that I didn't support you tonight. I should have done. If I’d thought it would have stopped you from feeling bad then I would have done.” You remain completely still. Mycroft pushes closer against you in desperation. “Oh my dear, how did it come to this?” One of his legs comes to rest partly over yours. Still you lie there. “I'm sorry,” he begins to cry, “I'm sorry that I let things get in such a mess.” He strokes at your hair with harsh, firm strokes, not realizing his own strength. You let out an incoherent mumble. Mycroft’s lips part, before he loses control, undoes a couple of buttons on your pyjama jacket, buries his head in your chest and cries. 

 

It is the vibration of his sobs that awake you. They jolt you into a bleary form of consciousness, before you blink in astonishment when you realize that your husband’s face is pressed in between your breasts and that he’s holding you close to him firmly with one hand. Your hands go to pat clumsily at his hair. He must have known you were awake before then, must have heard you stirring, but he goes completely still for one moment, before he lifts his head up and captures your lips in a kiss. You let out a gasp as your hand slips to his shoulder and he pushes your head closer to him. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he says when he finally pulls back from you with a myriad of tears shining in his eyes. 

 

You look at him incredulously, before you eventually croak, “Why are you saying that? None of this is your fault.”

 

“Yes it is,” Mycroft says, clutching at your arm as if he’s begging you to see reason. “I haven’t been there for you as much as I should have. I thought that things were going fine, so I left you to it, but I should have _seen”-_

 

You silence him with a kiss. You will not let him blame himself for this. Mycroft lets out a groan of pleasure into your mouth. Suddenly you’re an entanglement of limbs and Mycroft’s hand is fumbling to undo the rest of the buttons on your pyjama jacket, whilst you pant into each other’s mouths. Suddenly he’s pulling away and moving over you, straddling your waist and helping you to push your pyjama jacket off. You both lie back down properly once it’s removed, him over you, and you arch up against him as he kisses and nips at your exposed skin. You begin to writhe and your hands dart down to cup at his bottom through his boxer shorts. You both gasp and Mycroft’s head arches up, before you push his lips down onto yours. Your tongues wrestle and in the next few moments the rest of your clothes and his tumble to the floor along with a couple of cushions. He enters you without hesitation. His thrusts are frantic and you’re both loud, as if both of you are in your own world and neither of you are able to take in the fact that your daughter is so close to you. You come first, arching up against him and he holds onto your back securely as you shudder and scrunch your eyes shut, releasing it all in several pants and helpless gasps. Mycroft groans and then reaches his peak just as you finish yours. You sink down onto the bed, breathing hard; whilst his face conveys the pure ecstasy that yours had only shown just moments ago and his juices flow inside you. 

 

For a few moments, as his body stills, he just lies there, swallowing and allowing his soft breaths to cling to your shoulder. “You need help,” he manages to breath, before he blinks and lifts his head up. 

 

You tilt your chin down so that you can see him properly. “I know,” you reply, as your fingers stroke carefully at his hair. 

 

He huffs out a breath, slides gently out of you and moves off to the side. “You’ll see your GP?” he asks, his body turned towards you. 

 

You nod. He lets out a breath of relief, but his face soon turns more serious when you say, “I think I need more than that though.” He places a hand upon your side. You hold it there with yours. “I'm sorry that I said what I did earlier, but it’s true. I _do_ want to leave sometimes. I'm sorry, I know that it hurts,” you say as his face falls. 

 

“It hurts me,” Mycroft acknowledges, “But if that’s the way that you feel then I want to change that until you feel differently.”

 

You nod. “Don’t get angry with me,” you say, “But I-I think perhaps the best way, perhaps the _only_ way that I can fully recover is if I do so away from here.” 

 

Mycroft looks at you with a sad longing in his eyes. You stroke at his cheek. “But we’re your family, we can help you”- he begins to protest.

 

“I know-I know that I'm asking you to understand a lot, but being here”- you break off and pull a face. 

 

“You’re being constantly reminded of how you feel you’ve failed, of the relationship that you wish you’d with Lia, which, although I don’t like it, is probably not conducive to your recovery,” Mycroft says, finding the whole thing difficult. 

 

You nod, rubbing at his hand. “I just feel like maybe if I went away for a bit, if I stayed at a clinic or something, then maybe, and I'm not saying that I’d think about things any less, but maybe I’d have more time to focus on overcoming this without getting more upset when I have bad days and lash out at Lia and you.” Mycroft looks uncertain. “It wouldn't be forever,” you tell him, “Just a month maybe.” Mycroft still looks doubtful. “I know you’d rather that I was here. _I’d_ rather that I was here. That’s probably why its taken so long for us to get to this point in the first place. But all of this isn't fair on any of us, and if we want to be a family as much as we do then I think that I need to go away for a little while, so that we can achieve that.”

 

Finally Mycroft nods and you know without him saying anything that he’ll help you look up clinics, that he’ll go to the GP with you and that he’ll support you. Feeling grateful you snuggle closer to him. 

 

He puts an arm around you. “I love you,” he murmurs. 

 

“I love you too,” you reassure him, before you fall back asleep.

 

*

 

Mrs. Potherwaite already seems to have spread the word about your drinking problem that following Monday when you take Lia to school. The foul woman stands in a huddle by the school gates, talking to two of the other mums. Buoyed however by the plan that Mycroft and you have you ignore her, holding your head up high and acting as if you have no idea what they could be gossiping about as they look at you. Mycroft and you had spent a portion of the previous day looking up clinics and discussing everything-though price Mycroft says won’t be an issue-and you’re not going to let them spoil the progress you feel that you’ve made. It’s embarrassing and shaming to have people talk about you yes, but if anything then it only makes you feel more determined to get better. You go home and book an appointment with your GP. By saying that it’s about an urgent matter as Mycroft had requested you to, you manage to book an appointment for that afternoon. You text Mycroft the details and he promises that he’ll re-arrange his schedule so that he can be there for you. 

 

When you’re there in the waiting room together however Mycroft gets a call from Lia’s school saying that they’d like to speak to both him and Lia at the end of the day. Both Mycroft and you feel worried about what it might be about and your mind is still somewhat on the issue when you finally both go in to see your GP. After a brief examination and a talk your doctor seems to think that the best thing might be if you were to begin a course of medication that might assist your attempts to cut back at home. You’re also praised for having come and sought help in the first place. But both Mycroft and you are adamant that the best thing for you now will be to go to a clinic, especially because of Lia’s presence at home, though of course you don’t go through the ins and outs of your complicated relationship with Lia with your doctor, and finally he agrees, saying that he will send your notes on to the clinic you choose to go to. 

 

After a quick kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of your shoulder from Mycroft he and you go your separate ways. Mycroft to school and you heading home, feeling a little apprehensive about everything, but determined to make all of this work. 

 

*

 

As soon as Mycroft gets to the school the pretty teacher that he’d encountered before guides him into a room where Lia and the Headmistress are waiting for them. 

 

_“Daddy!”_ Lia says excitedly, getting off her chair and racing to hug him. 

 

“Hello,” Mycroft murmurs rather embarrassedly, before he guides her back to her seat in front of the Headmistress’s desk, shakes the woman’s hand and sits beside his daughter. “I hope this isn't regarding anything serious?” he enquires as the teacher takes her place next to the Headmistress. He looks between them. 

 

The Headmistress, a woman with light brown hair tucked up in a bun, green eyes and rather severe looking lips emits more of a matronly vibe than a motherly one, and she takes a deep breath, before she replies somewhat cryptically, “It might be Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft’s eyes fix on her unblinkingly. “You see Lia’s class had to write and draw about something that’s upset them recently today and”-

 

_“Ah,”_ Mycroft murmurs, already getting a sense of what’s going on here. “Was that an exercise, which had been pre-planned or did it only come on the agenda _after_ you’d shared a few words with Mrs. Potherwaite this morning?” He turns his gaze to the teacher. She flushes underneath it, but still holds his eye contact. He looks back at the Headmistress. “I do not appreciate being called in just so that you can attack my family and make out my wife to be some sort of a”-

 

“No one has called you in here to attack your family Mr. Holmes, _or_ to make inaccurate assumptions about what Lia’s home life might be like, but there _is_ something that you need to see,” the Headmistress clarifies. 

 

Mycroft grunts. The Headmistress looks at the teacher who doesn’t suddenly look as pretty to Mycroft any more, rather he sees her as having a sneaky and treacherous vapour over her instead, which comes in between any previous admiration that he’d had for her. Said teacher rummages through a pile of books that’s on the desk. She withdraws one, flicks to a page of it and hands it to Mycroft. He looks at her studiously, before he looks down at it. 

 

It’s one of Lia’s workbooks and on the double page the teacher has turned to lies the exercise that the Headmistress had previously spoken of. 

 

_‘I got upset recently…when Mummy was acting strange,’_ Lia has written. _‘One night I came downstairs and Mummy and Daddy were in the kitchen. I’d come down because I’d heard a loud crash and wanted to know what was going on. When I got there things didn't make any sense. Mummy was on the floor and she looked odd. Her hair was all messy and she didn't seem to notice me. Also there was glass and wine on the floor. It was red and reminded me of blood. I don’t mind blood, it’s really interesting actually, but I didn't like the wine on the floor. It was too messy. I tried to go forwards but Daddy didn't let me. He said that it wasn’t safe. He says that Mummy is ill and that’s why she gets angry and stays in bed all the time. I don’t like it when Mummy gets angry. She doesn’t even look like my Mummy any more. Or act like my Mummy. She’s giving Daddy all these lines. I wish she wouldn't.’_ That’s bad enough, but it’s the picture she’s drawn of you on the floor with your h/c hair going in all directions along with the red squiggles of wine and him standing there helpless beside you with large hands and lines on his face, which Lia’s identified as _‘Daddy’s lines’_ that truly makes him feel both angry and sad. That, which makes him think that it’s not just you whose failed her. He’s failed to shield her from it and now because of that failure and the silly Mrs. Potherwaite he finds himself sitting here being expected to explain about something that should be private. He flips the book shut and realizes as he does so that his hands are trembling. 

 

“Mr. Holmes there are people and organisations that you can be put in touch with who can help both your family and you,” the Headmistress says. 

 

“It’s under control,” Mycroft says in a breathless but firm voice as he rests the book back upon the edge of the table. He feels irked by her assumption that he can’t cope and that he needs her to help him. Feels angry about this stranger telling him how to deal with his own family.

 

“Mr. Holmes, I know that it’s difficult, but really there’s nothing to be”-

 

“I said that it’s under control,” Mycroft snaps without being able to help it, standing up as Lia begins to cry loudly. He glances at her with a pang of regret in his heart, before he looks back at the two women. “Not that it is any of your business, but my wife’s been to see her GP today and will be seeking further help for this problem. Now, if that quite satisfies you then I’d appreciate it if you didn't try to interfere again. My wife might be going through difficulties, but I can assure you that she’s still more than capable as a mother and you have no reason to be concerned.” Both the teacher and Headmistress stare at him. He huffs out a breath and turns back to his daughter. “Come Lia,” he says. But instead of obeying him she just wriggles further back into her seat and pouts. _“Come,”_ he says frustratedly, grabbing at her hand to get her out of her seat, before he tugs her out of the room. She cries and sniffs the whole way. 

 

When they’re finally in the back of the black car and being taken home Mycroft’s still smarting from the nasty trick that the teacher had played just to get his daughter to talk about all this when Lia asks, “Are you cross with me Daddy?” which just makes Mycroft feel even more annoyed. 

 

“No,” he says, loosening his seatbelt a little and twisting his head, so that he can look at her. 

 

She looks at him disbelievingly, her face still wet from all her tears and her nose twitching as she tries to suppress it from running. He gets a clean handkerchief out and tidies her up. Once he’s done so and put the handkerchief aside she slips her hand into his and he gives it a little squeeze, his anger deflating. It soon resurfaces though when Lia asks, “I-Is Mummy a drunk Daddy?”

 

“What makes you say that?” Mycroft growls as Harry looks at them through the windscreen mirror. 

 

Lia sniffs again. “We had to read our stories out and at break e-everyone was saying that Mummy was a drunk and that she didn't love me. They said that my whole family doesn’t love me because Mummy’s a drunk, Uncle Sherlock’s on drugs and you’re at work all the time.”

 

Mycroft feels a cold rage fill him. “I have a good mind to go back there,” he growls, looking out of the rear window. For making Lia write about the scary experience of seeing you in such a way is one thing but making her read it out loud and be subjected to public humiliation, as well as putting his entire family under a microscope of scrutiny, is another thing entirely. Lia squeezes his hand, seeking reassurance, and as he looks back at her his heart softens at her frightened expression. “I'm not angry with you darling,” he soothes, before he says more defensively, “And Mummy’s not a drunk. She loves you very much. As do both your Uncle and I. There is nothing wrong with any of us.”

 

“But why were the other children”-

 

“They don’t understand sweetheart,” he says, holding her close to him. She snuffles against his side and tilts her head against his chest as he strokes soothingly at her hair. 

 

As soon as they get home Mycroft tells Lia to go upstairs and get changed, whilst he goes to see you in the kitchen. The sight of your hopeful face looking up at him from a cooking book as a glass of wine perches nearby on the counter and the oven hums in the background however is enough to get him mad again. 

 

“Is everything all right?” you ask.

 

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Mycroft rumbles, ignoring your question entirely. He walks across to you and tips the wine down the sink, before he places the empty glass on the counter with a thunk. 

 

You look at him in surprise. “It’s a red hour, I'm allowed”-

 

“I don’t care,” Mycroft rages, striding back around and taking the timetable down from the wall, before he scrunches it up angrily with his hands and dumps it on the table. “For God’s sake what are you trying to do? Burn the house down? Is it not enough that you’ve considerably messed up our daughter’s life? You've got to make her homeless now too?” You fold your arms and look at him apprehensively. You feel suddenly breathless and your bottom lip feels close to trembling. He takes a couple of desperate steps back towards you. “There should be no red hours. There should only be clear ones where your mind is not distracted. Do you understand? You've been to the doctor’s today. You’re supposed to be feeling encouraged and doing your best to give this all up, so that you can be there for me when I need you, when our _daughter_ needs you. You should be here trying to make a real effort. Not just rushing to drink because it’s a damn red hour F/N!”

 

“I'm sorry okay?” you swallow and shift your jaw. You can feel inside that your whole body is close to erupting and shaking. 

 

“That’s not good enough any more! ‘Sorry,’ doesn’t cut it!” Mycroft tells you. 

 

“What’s going on? What happened at school?” you ask, trying to speak in an even tone. 

 

“You know what happened?” Mycroft asks, still looking angry as he stares at you. You swallow and shake your head. “Because of Saturday’s little display, which they’d heard all about from Mrs. Potherwaite by the way, they tricked Lia into writing about what’s going on and made her read it out loud. She’d even drawn a picture of you when you were sitting on the kitchen floor before looking a mess. She’s a laughing stock, as are we all!”

 

You flush and unfold your arms as Mycroft turns his back on you. “They had no right”-

 

“Well they did!” he blurts out as he whirls back around and you cower a little as his eyes blaze. “They did and now this is what we’re left with.” He huffs out a breath. “Everyone knows and you’re still not making an effort.” He turns his back on you again. “How on earth did we get here?”

 

_“Mycroft,”_ you utter, reaching a hand out towards him.

 

“Stop,” he breathes. 

 

“I”-

 

“I don’t want your empty words and I don’t want to talk about it any more,” he interrupts you curtly, and with that he strides out of the kitchen and begins to head towards the front door. 

 

“Where are you going?” you ask, following after him worriedly. 

 

“Out,” he mutters, “I need to think. Don’t bother saving any dinner for me,” and with that he’s gone, slamming the door behind him. The whole house seems to shake as do your very foundations. 

 

You lean against the wall for a moment in quite a state, whilst a gasping sob escapes your lips. Then, running your hands irritably through your hair, you return to the kitchen.

 

*

 

That night’s a miserable one. Grey sky turns into black, whilst a light drizzle coats the house, grass, trees and pavement. 

 

First you have a difficult dinner with Lia, who falls silent and looks moody as soon as you tell her that Mycroft won’t be joining you. Then your daughter retreats to play in her room, before you put her to bed. Afterwards you sit in thought in the living room. Even though you’re tempted to drink you don’t. You know that it will only make things worse. You just sit there in silence. 

 

Mycroft sits in equal quiet in the Diogenes Club. He too can’t bear to drink. He finds that just the smell of the stuff sends a nauseous feeling through his entire stomach. His head just keeps going around and around the same circle. How did he and you get here? What will happen if you fail your stint at the clinic? The effect that your drinking has already had on Lia scares him. He can’t bear it any more. He just wants his family back and happier times, but he knows that he now faces an uncomfortable wait just to see if that will even happen. His throat feels tight with emotion and he clenches his jaw. He will not cry. 

 

He stays sitting in that same seat with the same thoughtful expression about his face for hours. 

 

Once he finally gets home it’s to find that you’re sitting on the edge of the settee in the living room. You’re perched there as if you might take flight and run about the room. You’re clearly sober, but Mycroft wishes for one moment that you weren’t, or that you’d already gone to bed. He knows that it’s selfish of him, but he can’t bear to talk to you any more about all of this. Still, he knows the moment that your thoughtful eyes fall upon his that, that’s exactly what he’ll end up doing. He goes to sit beside you. 

 

You glance at him, before you look away again. “I know I'm not doing enough,” you say as your hands tangle together and Mycroft feels suddenly guilty for what he’d said to you earlier. He knows really that it’s not as if you’re _not_ trying, but that rather things just aren't happening quickly enough. “But I _am_ going to go to one of those clinics and I _am_ going to try and get better.”

 

“I know,” he says promptly, “You’ll have to forgive me for earlier. I”-

 

“I know,” you say with a sigh, leaning into the settee and tilting your head back. Mycroft stares at you worriedly, whilst you gaze at the ceiling. “You were angry. But I don’t want to talk about earlier. You were right. That’s all there is to it.”

 

“I’ll come and visit you at the clinic,” Mycroft promises, “I think we can both agree that it’s a good idea to keep Lia away from there, but I’ll come and support you. I promise that I will. We’ll get through this together,” he announces bravely, covering both of your hands with one of his. 

 

You give him half-a-smile because of his offer, before you shake your head and say, “No.” Mycroft looks surprised. “I don’t want you going there. I don’t want to keep having to say goodbye to you all the time or having to have the constant reminder of what a failure I am”-

 

“It’ll be a reminder for you of why you have to get better, because your family need you. It’s a positive thing,” Mycroft interrupts, squeezing at your hands and begging you to see reason, for his sake as much as yours. The thought of not seeing you for weeks on end scares him. 

 

Still you shake your head. “No,” you say, “I just need a break from everything. I’ll do better because of it,” and with that decision tentatively made you withdraw your hand and head up to bed. 

 

“But I won’t,” Mycroft stares after you forlornly. 

 

*

 

Mycroft and you struggle through another couple of weeks, before it’s finally the night before you’re due to go to the clinic. During that time, not unlike before when you’d been facing meeting Moriarty at the church, you only speak a little to each other, mostly about Lia and everyday things. Things that shouldn't hurt but somehow now do because there’s this aching void between you. You’re almost looking forward to going to the clinic just to get away from all the strain that living with him has become. For the sake of your daughter however that night the both of you come together and enter Lia’s room. 

 

You’d briefly discussed the idea of telling her about the clinic and letting her grow gradually used to the idea. Mycroft in particular had seemed keen on that route. But, not wanting the days hanging slowly over her like they had for the pair of you, you’d rejected the idea, _and,_ not wanting another argument Mycroft had relented and agreed to only tell her the night before. 

 

As you enter Lia looks delighted to see her Daddy, before her face falls when she sees you. As always it hurts, but you sit on the edge of the bed that’s furthest from the door and opposite Mycroft without a word. 

 

“Mummy and I need to talk to you Lia,” Mycroft begins. Lia blinks, before she looks owlishly up at her Daddy. “Starting from tomorrow Mummy will be going away for a little while.”

 

Lia looks at you. “On holiday?” she asks. 

 

Mycroft grimaces and you can tell that he rather wishes that _were_ the case. “No,” he shakes his head. 

 

Lia looks back at him. “To hospital?” she asks, and you feel guilty for feeling a little pleased by the worried expression that’s on her face. 

 

Mycroft puts his hand where hers is clasped around the top of the duvet. “To a sort of hospital yes,” he admits. “It’s a place, which will hopefully make her get better.” He glances up at you for support.

 

You shift your position and touch Lia tentatively on the shoulder. She startles and pulls away from you. You swallow it all back down. “It might feel like a long time, but it will only be for a few weeks. I’ll be back before you know it.” Lia looks down and nods. “I could circle the date that I’ll be back on the calendar if you like?” Lia nods, so you get up, find a pen and go around to write on the Red Setter calendar that’s on the door.

 

You make to go around and sit back down, but Lia asks, “Can you read to me now Daddy?”

 

You feel a stab of anger inside you. “I’ll just go then shall I?” you ask, before you can help yourself. Lia doesn’t particularly react, she just frowns, but Mycroft looks at you reproachfully. You huff out a breath and wave your hands, before you walk out of there. 

 

You don’t go far. You just lean against the wall outside the door, whilst you find yourself slowly cooling down at the sound of Mycroft’s soft voice as he reads Lia a story. You close your eyes. You feel bad for getting cross. You've put up with plenty of times where Lia has shown favouritism towards Mycroft. You don’t know why this particular one had made you snap. You suppose that you’d just wanted more of a reaction when you’d told her that you’d be away for a few weeks. A hug or something. Some need for reassurance or an, _‘I’ll miss you.’_ Not for Lia to act as if everything was normal. You swallow and your fingers curl up a little, before they straighten out again. You take a deep breath. _‘It’s okay,’_ you tell yourself, _‘In a few weeks you’ll be a proper family.’_

 

The light goes off completely in Lia’s room, making you come out of your thought. You let out a little breath, thinking that you should move. But before you can Mycroft leaves the room. He looks a little surprised to see you there as he closes the door behind him, but then his face clears in understanding. You swallow as he moves forwards automatically to hug you. You relax into his arms and press your face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent as he rubs at your back. 

 

“You’ll be home soon,” Mycroft murmurs, withdrawing from you and you nod.

 

* 

 

You try and keep positive as you kiss Mycroft on the cheek in the hallway, before he leaves for work that next morning and when you take Lia to school for the last time. The sight of seeing her walk through the gates makes you feel oddly emotional and you hurry away. Once you get home you pack everything that you’ll need, including a photograph of your husband and Lia. You even put the cross that your sister had given you all those years ago around your neck for good luck, before you lock up and Harry drives you to the clinic. 

 

You've seen a few pictures on-line, but it still comes as a surprise to you just how grand the clinic is. An independent centre in London its tall white exterior makes you feel like you’re going into a cathedral to be cleansed. Its interior is just as provocative with fancy chandeliers hanging over the dining room and wide, spacious hallways along with its plush places to sit and fireplaces. It feels so airy and welcoming that you let out a breath of relief just from being there. You’ll get better you’re sure of it in here and you’ll be so proud of yourself by the time that you finally go home. 

 

Whilst you begin your days and spend them by following a medically supervised detoxification programme, going to group and one to one therapy sessions along with taking yoga and aerobic classes and going swimming every morning and evening things are different for Mycroft and Lia too. 

 

For one thing Mycroft finds it difficult juggling his work and has to enlist John, who knows where you’ve gone, to pick Lia up sometimes from school. By the second week more of a routine has formed. Lia goes to school on her own. Harry drops her off right outside the gates and makes sure that there will be no issues. John picks her up after school, makes her dinner and keeps her occupied for a couple of hours until Mycroft comes home. Mycroft then has perhaps a couple of hours to spend with his daughter, before the bedtime routine. Once Lia’s settled and asleep Mycroft stays up late and does a few extra hours work, before the cycle continues. Your absence is manageable therefore, but Mycroft can’t say that he feels particularly happy about it. His mind is on you a lot, almost addictively. He’d tried to phone you the first night when he was missing you and struggling to know how he was going to cope with Lia all by himself as well as worrying about everything, but you’d hurriedly told him that you didn't want to speak to him whilst you were there, before you’d put the phone down on him. Not knowing what’s going on with you or how you’re progressing makes him feel restless, particularly at night when he tosses and turns, wondering how your day has gone and feeling lonely as he listens to the solitary call of the owl. He often finds that he wakes each morning with your name upon his lips. Whilst he feels like he’s failing to be there for Lia as much as he’d like too. He resents the fact that he has to rely on John all the time to pick her up, and though he’s grateful and he knows that Lia feels comfortable with the man he just feels like he’s not doing right by her and spending enough time with her. The worst thing is that if he had the guts to ask her how happy she is then she’d probably tell him that she’s fine. Indeed she seems a lot brighter and more childlike since you’ve been in the clinic, but that only serves to worry Mycroft more, as do some of the things that she’s been saying…

 

Of course what with things as they are and John’s involvement in it all it’s not long before Sherlock and all your other friends realise what’s going on and Mycroft soon finds himself having to deal with their reactions too. Lestrade says that if there’s anything he can do then Mycroft’s to give him a call. Sherlock’s his usual unsupportive self, blaming your addiction to alcohol on Mycroft and saying that it’s no wonder you’ve turned to drink when you’ve had to live with him for all these years. Sherlock suspects that the reality of your life had finally sunk in and that’s what had brought about this change. Mycroft had felt more than tempted to tell his younger brother to bugger off, but Lia had been present and Sherlock’s presence had seemed to cheer her up even more, so on that basis he’d desisted. Sherlock had further given him a headache though when he’d said that if Mycroft didn't inform Mummy about this then he would. He of course gets an earful as far as Donovan is concerned too, before the Detective Sergeant swears that she’ll go and see you as soon as possible. He gets a bit of a sneer when he encounters Anderson one day, and Mary is just appalled that he hasn’t been asking _her_ to pick Lia up from school. She says that she’ll help with Lia from now on. Mycroft, not sure how that will work considering her own marriage problems and how that will probably mean her running into John, wisely decides just to agree that, that would be a splendid idea and keep his mouth shut. He’s got enough to deal with and think about as it is without adding anyone else’s problems to his own. 

 

Mycroft of course soon gets a call from Mummy when Sherlock seems to decide that six hours is more than enough time for Mycroft to have told her. Mycroft resents his little brother for not caring that he’d spent most of that time in work. 

 

“Mykie why on earth didn't you tell me? Your father and I are appalled. We’re coming straight down and”-

 

“There’s really no need to Mummy,” he interrupts, “Dr. Watson and his wife are assisting me in picking up Lia from school. Everything’s under control.”

 

“Mycroft really, your wife is in a clinic for alcohol addiction, I don’t see how everything can be under control,” she scoffs. Mycroft lets out a breath. “How is she getting on?” Violet asks in a less stiff tone. Mycroft hesitates. “You _have_ been visiting and keeping in regular contact with her haven’t you?” she asks. 

 

“She wanted to do this on her own Mummy,” Mycroft finally confesses. 

 

Violet makes an exasperated sound. “Oh Mycroft _really,_ sometimes I think that it is _you_ who must be the one with autism and not your daughter. No one ever wants to go through anything like this on their own. She was just trying to spare your feelings.”

 

Mycroft wonders if that can be true, before he decides upon, “I think she was trying to spare her own actually.” Violet huffs out a disbelieving breath, so he adds, “Things have gotten rather more complicated here then perhaps you’d like to believe.”

 

“I’d know just how complicated things have gotten if you’d picked up the phone like you should have done ages ago and told me about all this instead of trying to deal with it by yourself,” Violet retorts. 

 

Mycroft swallows. He knows that she’s right. “I was rather reluctant”-

 

“Yes I gather”-

 

“She-She’s been having rather difficult feelings towards Lia,” Mycroft begins tentatively. 

 

_“Oh?”_

 

“She seems to be experiencing a certain amount of jealousy because Lia and I have a better relationship, whilst she struggles more to communicate with her. I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s just Lia’s autism that causes misunderstandings sometimes, but F/N’s feelings seem to have grown up inside her until they've somehow led to all of this.”

 

“Oh Mykie,” Violet says in both a sympathetic and despairing tone. 

 

_“What?”_ Mycroft asks, feeling confused. 

 

“Of course the poor girl’s upset. I thought there was something strange going on when your father and I came around before, but now you’ve said all that and with circumstances being what they are it makes even more sense.”

 

“I don’t understand, well I do, to a point”-

 

“I think you’ve been looking at the situation too closely dear, not seeing the wood for the trees as it were,” Violet goes on, and if she’d been sat next to him then she would have patted at his hand at that point. “Your father and I will come down and stay with you for a few days this weekend.”

 

“I”-

 

“We won’t get in the way or interfere, but I think that you and I need to have a proper chat about all of this.”

 

“Okay,” Mycroft finally relents, coming off the phone. 

 

He finds himself thinking about you even more after that, but, mindful of your no contact policy and because, if he’s honest, he’s a little wary and apprehensive about seeing you again, he makes a deal with Donovan.

 

*

 

You feel both surprised and a little relieved when Sally of all people suddenly pops her head around your room that Saturday, before the dawn of the third week and reveals that she’s come to visit you.

 

“Only someone who’s married to Mycroft Holmes could have ended up in a place like this to overcome alcohol addiction. This place is the kind you _should_ be drinking in,” Sally teases as she pulls back from hugging you. 

 

“It’s pretty astonishing isn't it?” you smile, before a thought comes to you and you ask, “He made you come and visit didn't he?”

 

“Well,” Sally says, as you sit down on the edge of your bed together in the comfortable but basic furnished room, “I was going to come and visit you anyway as soon as I heard, but yes, Mycroft ended up calling in at the station and telling me that he’d be most appreciative if I could inform him of how you are. He of course offered to pay me, but being the good friend I am to you I declined.”

 

You feel something that’s like both sadness and longing prick at your heart. “That man,” you end up finally saying with a shake of your head, only it comes out more fond than dismissive.

 

Sally seems to notice that there’s something not quite right about your relationship with Mycroft. “F/N, is everything all right?” she asks. 

 

*

 

‘That man’ finds himself sitting on the settee with his mother, whilst Edwin plays with Lia outside in the garden. 

 

“Well,” Mycroft starts the conversation off cautiously, sipping at his tea, “You implied that you might be able to enlighten me as to why F/N is feeling the way that she is?”

 

Violet can tell as her son rests the cup on his knee and keeps his eyes averted rather than on her that he feels hurt by the fact that he hasn’t been able to see such a thing himself. She ignores her own cup of tea, which is on the floor, grasps at his hand and gives it a squeeze. His lip twitches, but other than that he doesn’t respond. Violet lets out a sigh. “Imagine yourself in F/N’s shoes dear,” she says, and Mycroft glances sideways at her with intrigue about his face. “You find yourself in this dreadful incident. You lose a lot of important memories because of it. Memories that have helped make you the person you are. You feel crippled, but you look perfectly normal on the outside. Your family are probably the safest people that you can be among and in any case you love them, so you gravitate towards them. You then find out that in a way they've helped cause the situation you’re in. Still, somehow you get through all that, _and”-_ Violet breaks off and looks at him all the more severely-“I don’t think that you can afford to underestimate how important you were to F/N in helping her get through all of that. You gave her hope for the future and helped her to make sense of things. So, somehow she finds herself where she’s supposed to be. She has you and then she has Lia. No doubt she starts to get all these happy ideas in her head about the future and how this is it now. You’re her perfect family. You’re all that she needs. Only”-Mycroft swallows-“For some reason the utopia she’d imagined in her head doesn’t emerge. Little Lia doesn’t take to her as much as she’d like her to.” Mycroft opens his mouth. “Yes, I'm sure you’ve had happy times. I know that you must have in fact or you wouldn't have gotten this far.” Mycroft thinks of all those glorious firsts that had come in between all the worry and Lia’s testing. Lia’s first smile. First word. First crawl. First steps. How eager he’d been to get home so that he didn't miss any of it! “But that’s the situation and you can’t ignore it.” Mycroft nods, feeling crestfallen. Violet swallows, before she goes on, “As time went by, and I don’t blame you for not noticing this Mykie dear, most men wouldn't, and what with you being at work all the time”-Mycroft feels a horrible sense of guilt-“A resentment started to build up inside of her. F/N saw how little Lia was beginning to react to you more than her and though she was happy about Lia responding in the first place she couldn't help but want that for herself. F/N tried to push her growing feelings aside and kept on hoping that as Lia grew older she’d be turned to more. She hoped and hoped and she tried so hard to be a more important presence in Lia’s life. But the more she tried and hoped the more that Lia felt estranged from her and the opposite of what she wanted to occurred. So you see dear, F/N’s gone from finding her ideal situation to having even that ruined in her eyes. It’s hardly surprising therefore that this weakness that has been lurking in the background all along has now crept through.” By the time she finishes talking Mycroft feels hollow inside. 

 

“How could you know all of that?” he asks hoarsely.

 

“All it needed was a little distance,” Violet informs him sadly. 

 

*

 

Back at the clinic when you don’t respond Sally comments, “I bet you’re looking forward to getting out of this place though and seeing him and that daughter of yours again?”

 

A bit of a forced smile emerges upon your face, before you look away and breathe, “I'm not sure if I am.”

 

You hear Sally letting out a breath. You look back at her. She cups at your hands with hers. “You do still love Mycroft don’t you? Only usually, if you didn't I’d be telling you to get out of there, to leave him if that’s what you wanted, but you have a daughter together”-

 

“When I left home to come here I brought a photo of Mycroft and Lia with me,” you interrupt her coolly with your eyes averted. “I only looked at it the first night. I stroked at their faces and felt so sad that I wasn’t there with them. But since then I haven’t been able to bring myself to even do that.” You swallow a couple of times. “The first week was tough. God, I really started to doubt whether I could stay here and see all of this through, and I'm not saying that this week has been much better but I’ve got more of a sense of everything. I'm even starting to feel more like me”-

 

“You look great F/N, but go on,” Sally urges. 

 

You smile a little at her comment, before your face looks more serious as you confess, “Sometimes I wonder if going home though is really the best thing.” Sally lets out another breath. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you reassure her, “It’s just that my time here is going so fast and I'm-I'm _scared.”_

 

“Have you talked to Mycroft about any of this?” Sally asks, “Only what with him telling me to let him know how you are I got the impression that you two haven’t been talking very much.”

 

You let out a sigh, wishing that things were different. “He rang the first night. I put the phone down on him. It was stupid I know”-you wave your hands-“He just rang to check whether I was all right.” You begin to cry and swipe the tears away with your elbow. “I'm just scared that I’ll get home and nothing will have changed,” you elaborate. “Lia will still look at me like I'm more of a stranger than a mother.”

 

“Is that what this is really about?” Sally asks. _“Lia?”_ You nod. Sally lets out a breath. “I did wonder,” she confesses. “I thought that there must be something more even though your pain of a husband refused to tell me.” You let out a watery chuckle. “It’s not like you just to drink for no reason. Especially when you’ve actually achieved your greatest dream of marrying Mr. British Government,” Sally finishes, trying to make you laugh. 

 

You let out a watery snort. “I just feel so much like the third wheel sometimes you know? Like all Lia cares about is Mycroft and as long as he’s there then nothing else matters”-

 

“She takes after you then?” Sally jokes. 

 

_“Sally!”_ you exclaim, though you smile for a long moment too, before you say, “I like being a mother. I just never expected it would be like this.”

 

“Have you tried explaining that to Mycroft?” 

 

“I’ve tried,” you shrug, “I don’t think he really gets it. He tries his best to, don’t get me wrong, but I think it’s just so hard for him to even get on board with the fact that I'm having all of these feelings that don’t match up with his image of a happy family life.” You sigh. 

 

Sally nods thoughtfully. “Well,” she says finally, “In all seriousness you’ve still got a couple of weeks here so just try to focus on them and on getting better, before you go worrying too much about going home.”

 

You nod, but you can’t help but ask, “Does everyone know?”

 

Sally looks at you sympathetically. “All the important people,” she nudges you. “Your friends, probably Mycroft’s parents”-

 

You let out a sigh and clutch onto the duvet. You dread to imagine what Violet and Edwin think of you now. No doubt they’ll treat you differently when you come out.

 

As if she can read your mind Sally says, “Everyone just wants to support you F/N. I know you’ve had problems trusting people so much ever since your incident, but I think all of us would have just liked it if you’d chosen to confide in us, before your issues with alcohol had even got this far.” You let out a sigh. “I know it’s private and I know it’s difficult and that sometimes you like to keep things to yourself, but we’re your family too remember? All of us. Even the freak.” You smile. “That’s better,” Sally encourages, “So just try and keep us in the loop from now on and let us help you. Don’t leave it just to that silly husband of yours.”

 

You nod, feeling grateful, but you still feel apprehensive about going back home all the same. When the last night of your stay at the clinic arrives you barely get any sleep worrying about it all.

 

*

 

The following day you deliberately don’t arrive home until dinnertime and you’re still tempted to run away then, but you force yourself to knock on the door. It feels somehow more appropriate after all this time rather than just letting yourself in. 

 

It takes a couple of moments, before Mycroft opens the door with a furrowed brow. _“F/N,”_ he breathes, his eyes lighting up as soon as he sees you. Your stomach suddenly flips. It feels so good to see him again. He just stares at you for a moment as if he can hardly believe that you’re actually there, before he tugs gently at your arms and makes to kiss you. Feeling shy you dodge it and just hug him instead. He settles for kissing the top of your hair. 

 

“I thought I’d better knock rather than just let myself in. I didn't want to scare anyone,” you explain as you pull away from him.

 

Mycroft’s lip twitches as he nods and picks your bag up off the ground. It’s so good to see you again. “Whatever the case may I say that you’re looking more yourself now?”

 

“I feel it,” you smile, before you follow him inside. 

 

You close the door behind you as Mycroft drops your bag down onto the floor. “Lia?” he calls. “Come out of the kitchen for a moment would you sweetheart? Someone’s here to see you.”

 

“Oh,” you wave a hand, “I don’t want to disrupt her if she’s eating.” You think that Mycroft can’t know just how scared you feel about seeing her again and you’re quite tempted to put off the moment for as long as possible. 

 

“Nonsense,” Mycroft says, grabbing at your hand and giving it a quick squeeze, before he lets go of it again. “Besides we haven’t started dinner yet. I wanted to wait for you. She’ll be excited to see you.” You swallow, hoping that his words will turn out to be true. 

 

When Lia comes out of the kitchen cautiously however she stops when she sees you, before she scurries down to where Mycroft’s now stood opposite you and draws close to him, clinging onto his side as if he’s her lifeboat. 

 

You feel an almost unbearable disappointment. 

 

Mycroft looks down at his daughter in puzzlement. “Well Lia, don’t you want to give your Mummy a hug?”

 

Tentatively Lia steps away from her father’s side and slips her arms around you. You've barely begun to wrap your arms around her however when she’s pulling away again and standing next to Mycroft. 

 

“Is she home for good now?” Lia asks, peering up at Mycroft. 

 

“Yes darling,” he strokes at her hair and you feel a stab of anger about him talking for you as well as a pang at this conversation that’s almost happening as if you’re not there. Surely you’re not meant to feel like a ghost in your own home? 

 

But then Lia turns to you and asks, “You’re better?” and you feel a thread of foolish hope weave its way around your body. 

 

You lower to her level, realizing suddenly how much she’s grown in the short time that you’ve been away because you don’t have to bend down so far any more. “Yes darling,” you tell her, “I'm sorry for what I’ve put you through. I know its been difficult, but I promise that things will be better from now on.” You expect to see her face brighten. Expect maybe for her defences to lower and for her to at long last accept you as much as she accepts Mycroft. You don’t get any of that though. Instead all you get is Lia pulling a bit of a face, before she buries her head into her father’s side.

 

Mycroft touches at your shoulder when he sees the disappointment on your face and tries to give you a reassuring look. 

 

You nod and swallow, before you all make your way into the kitchen. You all settle down to eat. Mycroft’s cooked your favourite meal and you couldn't be any more grateful to him for his effort. You try again with Lia over dinner. You ask her about school and Grace and what she’s watched on TV. You ask her about what adventures she’s been on with her toys and whether she’s done any experiments with her Uncle Sherlock. Aside from asking the question you’re too afraid too, which is whether she’s missed you, you ask her about anything you can think of that might get her excited, firing question after question. But it just seems to make her irritated instead and you feel almost tearful. 

 

Mycroft puts Lia to bed not long after dinner and you unpack, before you perch on the settee, kneading your hands. 

 

Mycroft looks at you sympathetically when he enters and rubs at your leg as he sits beside you on the settee. “I think you were just throwing too much information at her earlier,” he says, “She just needs to have a longer conversation sometimes or she ends up feeling frustrated or scared because she can’t handle it and how much the other person expects from her. Frustrated with herself I should say, not with you.”

 

You nod, feeling as if you’re just being reminded of how ridiculously good Mycroft is at all this and how mediocre you are. You don’t have any clue how much his mother has helped him to understand things better. Don’t have any clue of how he now finds it easier to impart such information because of it. You swallow and think, whilst he makes soft strokes against your knee. You turn your head to look at him. “Did she say anything about me, whilst I was away?” Mycroft averts his eyes almost at once, looking sheepish, and your heart sinks as you already know that you won’t be getting the answer that you’d been hoping for. “Be honest,” you urge him, grasping at his hand, _“Please.”_

 

He swallows and looks at you. “The first night she said that the house was much nicer without you there and that she wishes you could go away more often,” he confesses in an even but hollow tone. Your face flushes and you look distinctly hurt as you open your mouth. Mycroft shifts his position, turning towards you more and grasping at your knee. “But she just said that because of the way you’d been acting before. You can’t blame”-

 

“I can’t do this any more,” you huff, shoving his hand off you and getting to your feet. You take a couple of steps towards the stairs. 

 

“F/N,” Mycroft says, standing up. His heart beats unevenly. 

 

“No,” you turn back to him. Your face is already stained with tears. “I can’t stay in this house or with you any more.” You jab a finger at the floor. “I just can’t. I'm sorry.” You turn back around, before you almost fly up the stairs. Mycroft hurries after you. 

 

“F/N please,” he utters, standing just inside the bedroom and closing the door lightly behind him, whilst you throw a case with a handle and wheels onto the bed and begin to pack. You feel annoyed with yourself for unpacking earlier. You could have just dumped all the things that you’d taken with you to the clinic into this larger case, added a few things and then fled. “Please don’t do this. I understand more now. I had a conversation with Mummy and it made me see how truly devastating all this has been for you and I just want to be there for you. We can talk to Lia more together, make her warm to you, make her see that”-

 

“Look,” you say, facing him angrily, “I'm really glad that you’ve had this nice chat with your mother and that you understand things more now, but Lia doesn’t need me. She probably never will and I'm not staying here just to be the third wheel and to make everyone’s lives miserable.” 

 

“Of course she needs you,” Mycroft says, _“I_ need you. As for being the third wheel you’re not.” 

 

“I am,” you make a scoffing noise, before you look away from him again. Mycroft steps even closer towards you and you look back at him. “You might understand more, but you don’t understand everything,” you tell him. You sit on the bed with a thump. “Do you know what they said at the clinic?” Mycroft shakes his head, looking a little apprehensive. “They said that I have depression and my alcohol abuse stems from that, that I drink so much because I can’t deal with my feelings. Feelings, which I know that I still have now after coming back here. Feelings, which I might never be able to get rid of, so I'm sorry to tell you but I don’t think that going to the clinic has worked, not really. I'm sorry that you’ve wasted your money and I'm sorry to have to come back here as the same failure I was when I left. I'm sorry that I’ve got all of these issues and I'm sorry that I can’t stay, whilst I feel all of this.” You get up and turn away from him, concentrating on your packing. 

 

Mycroft follows you around the room. “You’re wrong,” he murmurs, “The clinic _has_ helped. I can see that it has. It’ll just take a bit more time, but your depression isn't as big an issue as you’re making it out to be. I know you’ve been frightened of having such a diagnosis, but we’ll be able to work through it, I know we will.” You ignore him. “Don’t do this,” he goes on when he can see that he’s failing to get through to you, “Lia just needs time to get used to you again. You've been away four weeks. It takes time my dear.” _‘My dear,’_ you feel a pang. “Please don’t give up now when you’ve fought so hard already and we can all finally be together again.” Your rush to leave begins to deteriorate with his every word. You grow more tired and worn down from it all until you’re just left standing there, panting, a yellow top dangling from your hand, whilst your eyes stare hard at the case. Mycroft takes advantage of your hesitation to wrap his arms around your waist from behind you. “Stay,” he croons into your ear. _“Stay.”_

 

You don’t know what else to do in that moment so you nod. He lets go of you. You lift the case to the floor without bothering to unpack what you’ve packed already and change into your pyjamas. Mycroft undresses and slips into bed behind you. He holds you tightly. His fingers press into your stomach. You feel as safe and protected as you usually do wrapped up in his familiar scent, but something’s changed inside you, and that’s the fact that this house no longer feels like home. It feels like you’re just visiting or something. This is everything that you hadn’t wanted to feel when you came home. You close your eyes, whilst Mycroft sleeps on behind you. It’s then you realize that you shouldn't be there. You shouldn't be having this moment. You should have already left. Mycroft can say all he likes about it taking time, but you know for certain that you don’t belong here. Coming back after being away was enough to make you see that. Mycroft’s the only reason that you’d stayed. For the fact is you love him and want to be with him, just not like this. Not with a daughter who doesn’t need you. It’s damaging you and ruining everything else as a result. You can’t be here. Not right now. You don’t want to fall back into alcohol addiction. Mycroft was right; the clinic had helped as far as that was concerned. In fact you’ve been doing so well and you feel so much better now because of it, but you know that if you stay here then you’ll fall back into the same old habits again. You’ll get lost and it really will rip your family apart this time. Mycroft’s love for you will turn slowly into hate and Lia will just end up despising you. You have to go. Perhaps not forever, but at least for now. You have no choice. Perhaps you should have even gone, before you’d left for the clinic. But you hadn’t. So now you have to leave your husband and daughter behind. That’s the only way that the three of you might ever be happy together in the future. You let out a bit of a gasp as your tears flow, before you turn around slowly. 

 

Mycroft’s hand slides down your side a little as you do so and you adjust it until it’s on your thigh. He shuffles, moving closer to you, wrinkling his nose and putting his hand on your waist. “F/N,” he mutters contentedly, still asleep. “F/N.” You just shed even more tears. 

 

“Why do you always have to make it so hard for me hmm?” you ask, swiping your tears away, before you still and just look at him. “You know that I love you don’t you?” you whisper, peering at him and studying how his hair and every inch of his face looks in the darkness. He lets out an incoherent gurgle, but you suspect that he can’t hear you. “I love you and I love Lia and our little family so much. I just can’t stay here, can’t go on like this. It’s not fair. It’s killing me and that will just end up hurting Lia and you even more in the long run. I have to leave, at least for a little while.” He pushes you even closer to him, so that your mouth is almost against his chest as if he’s trying to get you to shut up. You let out a surprised laugh. “I love you Mycroft Holmes,” you whisper, tracing a circle into his shoulder. He nuzzles into you, holding you tight. “I don’t expect you to understand, but hopefully one day you might realize that I was trying to do what was best for everyone.” Your throat is so tight that you can’t speak any more. 

 

You spend most of the night with your head tucked against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and appreciating for one last time the serenity of his embrace. You let the warmth and protection you feel whenever you’re with him fill you up, hoping that it will be enough to last you however long you have to be separated from him. 

 

Around five you pull away from him and slowly start to pack up the rest of your things. Of course you can’t take every little thing that you’ve accumulated in all your time there, so you just focus on your favourite clothes and photos, along with items that have a special meaning to you. Mycroft can do what he wants with the rest of your junk. 

 

Then, once you’re done, you leave the shut case where it stands at the foot of the bed and pop into Lia’s room. 

 

“I love you darling,” you say, going across so that you can kiss her gently on the forehead and breathe in her scent, before you withdraw back to the door. For a long moment you just watch her. You think that one day perhaps she might be able to understand what you’ve put her through. For now though, as hard as it will be, the distance you’re about to give her will be the best thing. You let out a soft breath and pull back, returning to your own bedroom with a heavy and very emotional heart. 

 

You sneak in and almost fall over your case in the dark. You let out a soft curse and make to find the handle with fumbling fingers. 

 

They've just curled around it when a voice asks, _“F/N?”_ The voice sounds confused, but a little scared too.

 

You hesitate, before you crouch down, hovering uncertainly above the case. You’re tempted to just grab it and try and make a dash of it out of there, but you’re still in exactly the same place and position when Mycroft switches the light on clumsily a moment later. 

 

He peers at you as you straighten up sheepishly, before he half-sits up. He takes in the case and you. “I thought you were going to stay?” he asks, trying to keep calm as he swipes a tired arm across his eyes. 

 

You extend the case’s handle, whilst you fumble out, “I can’t. I'm really sorry, but I just can’t. Hopefully you’ll understand someday.” 

 

Mycroft sits up even more, his hands splayed out either side of his legs against the sheet. “I want to understand now,” he tells you. 

 

He looks so tired and confused, but more than that disappointed that it makes you go across, cup his face with one hand and say, “I love you.” You kiss his forehead, then both of his cheeks and finally his chin, making up some weird sort of cross of devotion upon his face. “Remember that. I love you, but I can’t stay. Not right now. It’s not healthy for any of us.”

 

You make to draw your hand away, but he grasps at your wrist. “Stay,” he urges. He looks at you imploringly and kisses at your pulse. “Please stay. I can’t say that it’s always going to be easy for you, but it’s like you said earlier to Lia things will get better, and if you love me”-

 

“I can’t,” you choke out, pulling back and staggering away from him. Doesn't he get how hard this is for you? This is your whole life and you’ve got to walk away from it all. He looks at you with a furrowed brow. You turn your back on him. For a moment you just lift up your hands and bury your head inside them. You hear the bed creak. In the next moment Mycroft’s arms are snaking around you.

 

“F/N we can get through this,” he whispers into your ear urgently. You can feel his chest against your back and feel the way that he’s almost hunched over you. “I know that tonight and the past four weeks have been difficult for you. You’ll have your good and bad days just like you did with your memory loss, but please just trust me when I say that I know we can get through all this if you just stay here and see this through.”

 

You bite down hard upon your lip, before you move carefully around to face him. He lets go of you and steps back to give you more space. His lips are parted. His eyes are alert and worried. They plead with you to stay. You don’t want to see that expression upon his face. Don’t want to see what you’re doing to him. You lunge forwards and kiss him hard. He lets out a little sound of surprise, before his hands go up to tangle through your hair. You try and convey so much through that kiss. Try and convey that you love him, that you’ll always love him and he’ll always be the one for you. Try and convey all of that along with how very sorry you are for having to do this. Your legs push against his and your fingers guide him back until his legs hit the side of the bed. Only then do you pull away. “I'm sorry,” you breathe, your face flushed and your eyes damp. You turn, grab the handle of your case and let it clatter behind you as you wheel it out of the room and downstairs. 

 

“No,” you hear Mycroft utter behind you as if he can’t say anything else. _“No.”_

 

You hear a sound, perhaps an uneasy or upset gurgle coming from Lia’s room. Every inch of you as soon as you hear it wants to whirl around, push past both your case and Mycroft, rush into her bedroom and scoop her up into your arms. Every part of you wants to be able to go in there and tell her that you’re not going to leave and that everything will be all right. If you said that it would all be a lie however. You’re decided, so you ignore both her and your husband, who is following you downstairs and march on. You reach the bottom of the stairs and suddenly the front door’s just an arms length away. You swallow, unlock it and walk out, leaving Mycroft standing at the bottom of the stairs in only his boxer shorts as he looks at the spot where you’d once been.


	12. Adjustment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and you begin to adapt to life without each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thank you so much for all your support! :) Please keep telling me what you think. It is much appreciated. :)

“Daddy?” the soft, cautious familiar voice comes when Mycroft’s still standing there reeling from your departure, whilst the dust swirls around his bare legs. 

 

“Lia,” he manages to choke out as he swivels around to face her. She’s staring down at him from the stairs wearing only her pink pyjamas. His mind feels blank. There’s no room for anything else there apart from the ache and the great sadness that he feels. 

 

“Where’s Mummy gone?” Lia asks, and the question makes Mycroft jolt suddenly back into life. 

 

He lets out a breath, hurries upstairs and places a hand upon Lia’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back to bed sweetheart,” he says. 

 

She looks like she’s tempted to say something else or to protest, but he somehow manages to usher her back into her room without her doing so. She clambers into bed and together they draw the duvet over her legs as she remains in a sitting-up position. Once she’s settled she looks at him intently. “Mummy’s not coming back is she?” she asks in much of an even tone, though Mycroft can still detect the trace of fear that’s there beneath it and it breaks his heart. 

 

He looks down and stares at her hand, studies the way that it’s fisted around the duvet. He feels oddly emotional like the tears could burst out of him at any moment. It had been bad enough with things the way they had been, but now that you’re gone he can hardly believe that its come to this. How on earth is he supposed to explain everything to Lia? He swallows and forces himself to look back up at her. 

 

She stares down at him steadily. “Is it because she doesn’t love us any more Daddy?” she asks.

 

“No darling,” Mycroft says, clutching at her hand, “Mummy loves us very much. She”- he breaks off and looks down again as he struggles. He looks back at her. “I think she’s just hurting too much right now to be with us.” He pauses. “Can you understand that?”

 

“Not really,” Lia shakes her head, frowning. Mycroft can’t say that he blames her. It doesn’t make any sense to him. He feels a sudden surge of irritation. If you could have just been patient with yourself and everyone else instead of being scared and running away…Lia shifts her position and he comes out of his thought. “Does this mean Mummy and you will be getting a divorce Daddy?”

 

 _Christ,_ he hasn’t even thought of that. “I don’t know darling,” he replies honestly, squeezing the top of her hand. “That’s something, which might have to be discussed at some point.”

 

Lia nods, before she touches at his face clumsily with her hand, looking sleepy. “I think the lines might go soon Daddy.” 

 

Mycroft can’t say that he agrees. But as Lia slips down into bed he tries to smile at her nonetheless. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s digital alarm clock seems to make its presence known far too early. He silences it with one deft hand like a cat swatting at a toy and scrunches up his eyes, keeping them resolutely shut. He doesn’t want to get up. The unmistakable truth sears through his veins, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to try and trick himself. From wanting to try and believe that you’re in bed next to him. From wanting to believe that if he were to sleepily reach out a delicate hand that it might come into contact with your side, might be able to delve underneath your top, probe at the warm skin that’s there and pull you closer. Doesn't stop him from wanting to believe that if he opens his eyes he might be able to see your face. Your eyelashes swooping down towards your cheeks, your softly shut eyes, the slight crinkling of your nose, the playful smile about your lips. God, that’s all he wants, he thinks, to see your face before him and to know that you’re his and he’s yours and that you still have a chance together. A chance to work through all this. The rest of the world can go hang itself aside from those facts he thinks. He opens his eyes as a tear trickles down his cheek. The other side of the bed is empty. He can see straight across to the wall and he hates it. He curls in on himself and tries to suppress a loud cry of pain from escaping his lips. He’s never felt worse than this. His head aches, he feels groggy, his mind sluggish, yet he knows through all of that, that what he wants is you. He sits up, before he stills a moment later when he realizes that he can smell toast and hear the sound of movement coming from downstairs. He half gets out of bed, thinking of Lia, before his mind operates enough for him to realize that it can’t be her. He’s taught her how to use the toaster yes, but he’s told her too to never to use it without supervision and he’s sure that she would not disobey him, even in these most strenuous of times. Besides, it’s only half-past-six; it’s unlikely that she’d be up. He swallows and pushes himself off the bed into a standing position as his mind tentatively wonders if it could be you. He realizes that it must be. After a little thought somewhere you’d come to realize what a mistake you’d made and returned. His heart lifts. He hurries out of the room without even dressing and wastes no time in moving downstairs. Why should he when right at that moment you’re there? Probably feeling emotional as you fix up breakfast and wait for him. He’ll forgive you for last night, of course he will. He’ll take you in his arms and he’ll tell you that everything will be all right now, you’ll see. He’ll help you work on your relationship with Lia and you’ll be happy. You’ll all be happy. He can’t wait to see you and tell you all of this. He rushes down the narrow hallway, taking very little care, before he bursts into the kitchen. He looks across to the counter with slightly parted lips, expecting to see you there with teary eyes, but it is not you but rather Sherlock who stares back at him in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark belt and trousers. “Sherlock! What are you doing here?” he asks. 

 

Sherlock looks him up and down, before his expression crinkles into one of disgust. “You might usually walk around stark naked when F/N’s here, perhaps that turns her on I don’t know, but when I'm on breakfast duty I’d prefer it if you could get dressed, before you come down.”

 

“I'm not stark naked,” Mycroft mutters irritably, though he goes on to check in spite of himself. It’s a relief to find that he’s wearing his boxer shorts just as he’d thought. 

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as he places two teabags into two cups, whilst the kettle boils. “No doubt,” he begins, as he goes on to spread liberal amounts of butter across a slice of toast, “You thought that it was F/N coming back, but I think if it had been then she would have quickly run off again at seeing the sight of you.”

 

“I’ll ask you again,” Mycroft says, folding his arms, “What are you doing here Sherlock?”

 

“I'm here,” Sherlock says, moving on to add jam to the toast, “Because last night F/N left you and whether you like it or not you need me right now.”

 

“She did not leave me,” Mycroft huffs, trying to salvage some of his already fractured pride. Sherlock’s eyebrows go up even higher. Mycroft shifts his position. “It was a mutual decision,” he says, waving a hand. “For Lia’s sake.”

 

Sherlock makes a disparaging noise. “When did you come up with that? Just now?” he scoffs, holding the plate of toast towards Mycroft. Mycroft takes it dubiously from his brother, but does not reply. “I thought so,” Sherlock states with some satisfaction in his tone.

 

Mycroft takes a big bite out of the toast and swallows it down. “How do you even know that F/N’s gone?” he asks. 

 

Sherlock starts putting liberal amounts of butter and jam on his own piece of toast, whilst he says, “F/N stayed at Donovan’s last night. She intends to go back to Wales today. She’s been sending messages to everyone saying that she needs a break from city life and that she doesn’t know when she’ll see us again.”

 

“I see,” Mycroft says, fingering his toast thoughtfully. 

 

“You did not know about her intention to go back to Wales?” Sherlock studies him. 

 

“No,” Mycroft says curtly, shaking his head. “Though of course it makes sense,” he adds. 

 

Sherlock nods and for a moment the two men just eat their toast in silence. Sherlock stands by the counter and Mycroft stands off to the side of it. “Will you go after her?” Sherlock asks when both are finished. He takes Mycroft’s plate and settles it on his upon the counter. 

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh, before he uncertainly makes to suck the toast crumbs off his fingers. Sherlock rolls his eyes, rips off a piece of kitchen towel and hands it to him. Mycroft takes it from him gratefully. “I don’t know,” he says as he wipes his hands. Sherlock huffs out a frustrated breath. “It’s complicated,” Mycroft warns, looking at him. 

 

“Yes, I'm sure that living with you is very complicated,” Sherlock quips, “At least that’s how I remember it being when we used to live together.” Mycroft lets out another sigh at the memory of those turbulent days just after Sherlock had finished university. Sherlock folds his arms and turns to face him. “Does she still love you?” he asks. 

 

“I believe so,” Mycroft says heavily. 

 

“You still love her,” Sherlock muses, putting a finger to his chin. It is a statement rather than a question. 

 

“I”-

 

“You look worse than I’ve ever seen you,” Sherlock says, “Don’t try to deny it.” Mycroft sighs yet again. “The pair of you have a daughter together,” Sherlock goes on, “So for her sake if nothing else then you should be trying to stay together.” 

 

“I know,” Mycroft struggles, “But”-

 

“Does it really have to be any more complicated than that?” Sherlock asks. “Can the pair of you really not work through your difficulties?”

 

“F/N’s feelings are”-

 

“Terrifying to you I'm sure, to realize that someone else’s feelings are so strong that you can’t control them. But if you were half the man that you walk around pretending to be then you’d be drawing up a plan right now to stop her from walking out of your life,” Sherlock finishes firmly. 

 

Mycroft’s face pales. He knows that Sherlock’s words make sense, but he can’t think of a plan right now. He can barely think of the day ahead, he’s still in shock about it all. “F/N’s determined,” is all that he manages to get out when Sherlock still looks at him maddeningly. 

 

Sherlock’s expression becomes one of incredulity. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, before he shakes his head and makes a sound of discontent. He looks down at the floor and his feet shift ever so slightly across it. Mycroft eyes him warily. “Perhaps I should phone Mummy?” Sherlock comments as he finally looks back up at Mycroft again. “Get her to come down here, hold your hand and tell you to be a big boy about all this? I thought we could get away without her involvement, but obviously, if you’re going to take that attitude with it then we can’t.”

 

“I don’t need Mummy, _or_ you,” Mycroft begins with his eyes flashing somewhat, “Telling me how I should be handling all this. It’s early and its been a very long night. All I want to do is make sure that my daughter gets off to school and go to work.”

 

“No,” Sherlock huffs, stomping his foot a little, “All you want to do is bury your head in the sand about all this and pretend that it’s not happening. But you should know more than anyone that a war does not just sort itself out”-

 

“F/N and I aren't at war Sherlock,” Mycroft says with a patient indulgence in his tone. 

 

“You might be if you don’t do something,” Sherlock says, looking frustrated and Mycroft frowns. “Listen to me: F/N has left,” Sherlock enunciates the words very clearly, “You need to act.”

 

“Perhaps if it was just us then I would,” Mycroft admits, as his brain finally begins to work more coherently. “But,” and he looks off to the side now, “Lia needs stability. F/N can’t give her that. For whatever reason she’s too confused about everything right now.” 

 

Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly at him. He can’t believe the mistake that his older brother is making, but before he can even try to express such a feeling in words Lia comes bounding in. 

 

“Uncle Sherlock!” she says, “What are you doing here?” she runs across to hug him. 

 

Sherlock’s arms go around her unusually protectively. “I'm going to take you to school today,” he tells her. 

 

“But Daddy”- she turns to look at Mycroft, giving him a pretty smile as she usually does. 

 

“Daddy needs to make a phone call,” Sherlock says testily, letting go of Lia and going across to his brother with stern eyes. “If I haven’t heard that you’ve told Mummy about what’s going on by the end of today then I’ll tell her myself,” he whispers heatedly into his brother’s ear. Mycroft’s jaw clenches and he swallows. Sherlock turns around back to Lia with a much brighter expression upon his face. “Right Lia, what should I get you for breakfast today? Eggs perhaps?”

 

“She should really just be having some cereal and chopped fruit,” Mycroft attempts to say, but at the sight of Lia running off to get an egg and Sherlock readying a frying pan he can tell that his attempts to object have fallen on deaf ears. 

 

*

 

You wake up in an unfamiliar bed feeling groggy as a groan escapes your lips. You lift up your head blearily, feeling disorientated and your hand pushes down against the bed sheet as you try to remember what day it is, what’s supposed to be happening and more importantly where you are. 

 

Things are just starting to click back into your hazy mind when a voice says, “F/N?” You twist around, squinting a little as Sally comes into view. Fully dressed in a matching grey jacket and trousers for work with a black shirt she steps beside you, her body a little bent and her eyes scanning your face. Your heart sinks when you remember arriving at Sally’s late last night, or had it been early this morning? You wonder. Sinks when it remembers how you’d left Mycroft and Lia the previous night. Your chest feels tight, never mind your throat. Not sure if you’re able to get any words out you just make a sound to let her know that you’ve heard her. Her face softens. “I'm going to be leaving for work in a bit,” she says, “Do you want to have breakfast with me?” You nod and move into a sitting position. Sally gives your shoulder a quick squeeze and leaves the room. 

 

*

 

“Are you going to go back home today?” Sally asks tentatively from where she’s sitting opposite you. 

 

“No,” you reply, lifting your head up from where you’ve been prodding at your _‘Special K’_ cereal with a spoon. Sally’s already wolfed down her banana and the speed in which she’d done so had left you feeling rather depressed. “It’s like I said last night,” you tell her, your voice a bit gravelly, “I'm going back to Wales. I need to be somewhere else for a bit.”

 

Sally bites down at her lip. “Look F/N,” she says, half making to grab at your hand, before she changes her mind. “I know you’ve just come out of the clinic and that going back home last night must have been hard for you.” You open your mouth. “I'm not even going to pretend that I understand what you’re going through because I probably don’t.” Temporarily mollified you close your mouth. “But it’s like I’ve said before. You've got a daughter now. No matter how hard things are you can’t just turn your back on her, even if it is only for a little while. She deserves more than that.”

 

“It’s precisely because I’ve got a daughter that I had to leave,” you say a little heatedly. Sally looks at you. “She’s not having a good life with me there at the moment. She’s better off in Mycroft’s care. He can look after her until I'm better and then…” you trail off and bite at your lip, before you shake your head as tears well in your eyes. It’s hard for you to picture that happy time where the three of you will be together again when you’ve only just left. It feels like such a long way off in the future and that hurts. “You have no idea how much I want a drink right now,” you confess, “What with the way I'm feeling I’ll probably be back at the clinic, never mind Wales.” 

 

As you begin to cry Sally gets up to hug you. You stand and turn, allowing her to do so. “It’s all right F/N,” she soothes, “It’s going to be all right.” She rubs mechanically at your back.

 

“I love them so much,” you splutter against her shoulder. 

 

“I know,” Sally says, before she suggests, “Perhaps you just need to talk to Mycroft more about how you’re feeling?” 

 

“No,” you draw back from her, shaking your head. “This is the best thing. I need to be away from there. I’ll end up drinking myself to death otherwise. I know I will.”

 

Sally looks concerned, but she doesn’t say anything more. 

 

*

 

At half-past-seven when Sherlock leaves for school with Lia in one of the usual black cars, Mycroft, now fully dressed in a grey suit and white shirt, gets out his mobile with a heavy heart and calls his mother. He hopes she won’t answer, but of course she does.

 

“Mykie?” she asks questioningly. “Is that you?” Hearing her voice and those simple words is all it takes for the full force of emotion from the past night to catch up with him and suddenly his throat is too tight to speak. All he can manage to let out is a fluttery breath. “Mykie?” she asks, “Mykie?”

 

At the sound of her voice growing all the more desperate Mycroft forces himself to get out, “She left me Mummy. F/N left me.” Sticky spit bubbles up in his mouth as the words come out and he swallows it all back down. 

 

 _“What?”_ Violet shrieks in a high-pitched tone. 

 

“Last night,” Mycroft reveals, “S-She came back, came home, and I-I was so pleased Mummy, so happy to see her.” He thinks that his mother’s holding her breath. “Lia though-well she wasn’t-F/N had been away for so long after all. I don’t think she quite knew what to do. I don’t think either of them did. But we had dinner and I put Lia to bed. F/N was upset. S-She nearly left then, but I talked to her, I told her of our conversation and said that I understood more. She stayed. When we went to bed I thought that I’d managed to convince her. But then I woke and she was standing there with a case and-oh God Mummy! What am I going to do?” He raises his free hand from where its been resting on the kitchen table and buries his head inside it. Tears trickle down his face. He knows that he should be going to work, but he can’t bring himself to care too much that he’s already late. He only has the energy to focus on the mess at home and his mind can barely think about that coherently. 

 

Violet’s soft breaths come down the phone for a moment, before she gets herself together and says, “You need to talk to her.”

 

“That’s what Sherlock said, but I can’t, not right now. She seemed so determined. I don’t know where to start.”

 

“You’ll begin by saying that you love her and need her. You need to properly express how much she’s worth to you Mycroft. How much Lia needs her too”-

 

“I hate all this,” Mycroft blurts out, “I can’t bear it. I don’t want it to be like it has. Either F/N comes back and she stays for good or she goes. I just can’t”- he breaks off as an anguished sob erupts from his mouth. 

 

“I’ll come down there,” Violet says, her voice sounding louder and more determined as if she might be standing up. 

 

“No,” Mycroft protests, “I don’t want”-

 

“Mykie,” Violet interrupts and Mycroft can hear the clear despair in her own tone, “You need someone who can look after both Lia and you right now. You need to try and be realistic about this. Lia needs her mother and you need your wife. That’s the bottom line. You need to talk to F/N and work all this out. Having someone there who can look after Lia at a drop of a hat, whilst you do so, will be a weight off your mind. Your father and I will be with you by this afternoon. No arguments.”

 

“She’s going to Wales,” Mycroft blurts out. 

 

Violet let’s out a breath as if she’s just had the wind knocked out of her. “You can’t let her go Mykie!” 

 

“I”-

 

“Your father and I will pick Lia up from school. Use the time to see F/N.”

 

*

 

You’re just checking that you’ve got everything you need, before you leave Sally’s when there comes a knock upon the door. Frowning you hurry across the rest of the flat to answer it. Sally’s already left for work so you’re the only one there. 

 

You’re initially surprised to see that it’s Mary, but when your mind starts working more you say, “If Mycroft sent you then I’d rather not talk. In any case after what you did to your own family I'm tempted to say that you should just go anyway.”

 

Mary looks at you evenly, undeterred by your words. “Mycroft didn't send me,” she reveals, “I heard that you’d left and I wanted to see you myself.” You turn your back on her and lead the way to the bedroom you’d stayed in last night. Mary closes the door of the flat behind her and follows you. “I know you’re angry,” she says, watching as you bend down on the pretence of flicking through things in the open case that’s on the bed, “But I'm still the person who was there for you when you first found out that you were going to have Lia, who gave you all that advice during your pregnancy, and who helped keep you sane when Mycroft was driving you the other way with his constant fussing no matter what I’ve done in the past.”

 

“I don’t want you talking about them,” you mutter angrily, before you bite down hard upon your lip as silly tears well up in your eyes once more. “Besides,” you utter, “You still shot Sherlock.”

 

“I shot Sherlock because I had to,” Mary tells you, “Surely you know that? Because I was terrified of John finding out, of what it would do to us, of Grace and Jake finding out what their mother used to do for a living.” You swallow, zip up your case and grudgingly turn around. You fold your arms. “We’re not that different,” Mary goes on, “You've had to leave because of your trouble with alcohol and I had to leave my home for a while because of my past.” Your brow furrows. Part of what she’s said doesn’t make sense to you. She steps forwards and clutches at your hand. “John and I are back together F/N.” You let out an astonished breath. Mary’s face softens. “It actually happened when we both ended up looking after Lia, Grace and Jake together at your house when you were at the clinic. It was awkward at first.” You open your mouth. “Oh, don’t worry. We didn't argue in front of the children. But things started to grow less tense and become more as they had been _and,_ one day, John said that he wasn’t going to look at the contents of the USB stick and that he wanted to be a family again. He said that my past was my concern, but my future was his and that he didn't want our family to be ripped apart by this or by anything else.” You look at her with an uneasy feeling inside of your stomach. “The point is,” Mary squeezes at your hand, “Is that if John and I can do it then I'm sure that Mycroft and you can.” You look down uncertainly and let out a breath. She grasps at your hand tightly. “How long have you waited for this and wanted a happy family life with Mycroft?”

 

“A long time,” you utter, swiping a stray tear away with your free hand. 

 

“Then don’t give up on it all now and more importantly don’t give in. Not when you’ve come this far.”

 

You pull away from her and step back. “Look,” you say, “I'm happy for John and you. I'm glad that you’re getting your lives back on track and that you’ve managed to come through all this, but things are different for me.” Mary opens her mouth. “I know what’s right for me and for all of us,” you go on, “And that’s, that even if I return home eventually I can’t be there right now.”

 

*

 

Mycroft doesn’t go to see you. He just leaves work early instead and works at home, whilst his parents fetch Lia. 

 

“Have you been to see her?” is the first thing Violet asks when he lets everyone inside. He shakes his head. He’d just spent most of the day brooding miserably on everything. She looks for a moment like she might tell him off, but then her face softens at seeing the hidden despair on his and she breathes, “Oh Mykie.” She pulls him into a hug. Lia joins in and Mycroft finds himself smiling properly for the first time that day. 

 

His parents help him to sort dinner out and then once that’s done and Lia’s playing in the living room with Edwin, Violet tells him that he should at least try and phone you. He goes off to the bedroom upstairs reluctantly to do so. 

 

Once he gets there though he just finds that he sits on the bed. He still doesn’t know where to begin. You’d seemed so adamant when you left. He’d once thought, during the time of your memory loss, that there had been something inside the pair of you driving you together, but last night it had been more like there’d been a force driving you away from here. 

 

The last of the sun’s rays filter in through the window, casting away the shadows as he sits there in his rumpled grey suit and ponders. 

 

Finally he slips his mobile out of his pocket. For another moment or two he just toys with it in between his hands. He has no idea what to say to you. He supposes that he could return downstairs without having phoned you, but he suspects that Mummy would see through him at once. Also, perhaps whether he knows what to say or not he _should_ be phoning you. For Lia’s sake if nothing else. He presses to call your number and holds the phone up to his ear. He feels a mixture of both relief and disappointment when it goes to the answer machine. “F/N,” he murmurs heavily, “Perhaps-Perhaps we could talk about all this?” He pauses and licks at his lips. “I know you’re more than likely in Wales now”-he knows such a thing for definite in fact because he’s still got your security detail watching you and he has no intention of ever stopping them from doing so-“I know that it’s perhaps wise, whilst you’re still recovering for you to be taking time away from here, but I-I think we should have more of a conversation about all this.” Another pause. “Don’t you?” He lets out a bit of a breath and fidgets with his hands. He wants to say more, about how much he loves you and wants you to be by his side just like Mummy had suggested he do earlier, but he can’t seem to get the words out. He closes his eyes. Perhaps if he tries to picture your face then he’ll be able to? But imagining your e/c eyes gazing at him, whilst your h/c hair frames them just makes his throat feel tight and fills him with too much emotion again. “I-er-I have to go F/N.” He clears his throat. “Goodbye then.”

 

*

 

“Let us all listen to it,” Alice urges when Mycroft’s voice message comes through on your phone. She’d hurried down from the vicarage where she now lives with Darren as soon as your mother had rung her to say that you were back home and upset. 

 

You wave a hand in irritation and listen to the message, before you hold the phone in between your hands, worrying at your bottom lip. 

 

 _“Well?”_ your mother asks, hovering over where you’re sat, whilst she clutches at a cup of tea. “What did he say?”

 

“He wants to talk,” you shrug, lost in your own world despite your family’s close proximity. You've got Alice sitting opposite you, your father beside you with his hand on your knee and your mother above you. You've barely been home and already you feel smothered. 

 

Your parents exchange a glance at your words. “Perhaps you should,” your mother says. “You've got Lia to think about after all.”

 

You make a frustrated noise and all of them look at you. “I wish everyone would just stop saying that,” you huff, “I'm perfectly aware that I’ve got a daughter thank you. I haven’t forgotten. I know I’ve been away at the clinic for a while and that’s probably made you feel ashamed after you’ve all been trying to see me in the best light possible for all this time, but despite that, and despite what you probably think of me being here right now, I'm trying to do what’s best for her, best for Mycroft, best for us all!” You get to your feet. 

 

 _“Oh!”_ your mother says, waving her free hand about angrily, “I wish I’d never let you move in with that man!” 

 

“This has got nothing to do with Mycroft. None of this is his fault. As hard as I'm sure it will be for you to accept it’s all mine.” You take a deep breath and add, “I'm going to go to bed. I could do with an early night.”

 

No one stops you.

 

*

 

A couple of weeks pass. Knowing that you’re still not settled enough to go home you begin to look for a new place to live. To your surprise one day you get a text message from Mycroft, which contains the address of a cottage just a few minutes walk away from your parents house. You’d looked at it only a couple of days ago and felt delighted by it. The only thing that had put you off was its price. You do not particularly feel surprised however by the fact that Mycroft knows about it or how he obviously still has his own men watching you; there is only a sense of resignation there. Mycroft Holmes will do what he likes. You will never be able to change that. You get a few photos from him a moment later of said cottage, reminding you of its intimate, but still somehow airy inside and small, but perfect lawn garden out back. You’d imagined yourself relaxing out there and writing on sunnier days, your legs sprawled across the grass, whilst your bum rested on the paving slabs close to the patio door. Again you find yourself fantasizing about that image. Another text comes through from Mycroft. **All yours,** this one says.

 

You feel both a pang of joy and sadness hit your heart. _What do you mean?_ You text back. 

 

 **Think of it as a little gift from me,** Mycroft replies.

 

Emotion wells up inside you as you remember all the other ‘little gifts’ he’s showered you with throughout the years. Your fingers hover over the buttons on your phone as you debate what to say. _I can’t accept it,_ is what you type out eventually. 

 

 **You can and you will,** Mycroft sends, **Whatever’s going on between us I know that it’s important that you have your own space right now. The cottage, as you well know, will be perfect for you. It’s also close enough to your parents and Alice to keep them happy. I’ve signed everything off this end and a man will be with you shortly, so that you can do the same.**

 

You feel another pang at his words. You feel both grateful at his generosity and sad about everything. You feel that you have to make things clear however. _Mycroft I’ve left, and as much as I want to I'm not sure if I’ll ever be able to come back. I know that I won’t be able to certainly for some time. This could take months, years for me to properly deal with. I know that hurts, but you need to know that. I don’t want you thinking that the cottage you bought is going to end up as a little holiday home one day for us whenever we come and visit my parents._

 

 **I am aware of that, but with all that said I could not have the mother of my child fretting about accommodation. The cottage is yours now. You can do as you wish with it. There is no need for thanks.**

 

You can sense him shutting down, but you can’t help but send, _Thank you,_ in spite of yourself. 

 

Mycroft does not reply and something wriggles uneasily in your heart. 

 

*

 

The day before you’re due to move in to the cottage you get an unexpected visitor. Your sister had visited that morning, so when the knock on the door comes you know that it can’t be her. Whilst your parents are out for a walk. _Well,_ your father’s in the pub and your mother’s probably out for a walk. You have a sudden flash of it being Mycroft. Of him having taken the opportunity to come down and help you with the final preparations for the move. You feel a surge of hope in your heart. In spite of yourself you want to see him again so much. You rush to the door. 

 

Your face must fall however as soon as you see Violet standing there, for she says, “Ah F/N. Perhaps you were hoping for someone else?” She says such a thing not unkindly, but knowingly yet your heart sinks all the same. “Might I come in?”

 

You swallow, nod and step inside to let her in. “It’s-It’s nice to see you,” you say awkwardly, not knowing whether she’s Mrs. Holmes to you now or still Violet. What does a mother-in-law become when you’ve just walked out on their son? You rub your already clammy hands against your jeans. She makes no comment and just shoots you a rather scrupulous gaze. “Would-Would you like a cup of tea?”

 

“Yes please dear, its been rather a long trip. I’ve left Edwin in the pub”-you have the sudden horrific image of your father being amazed by the sudden presence of the other man and the two talking together somewhat gruffly about everything-“I wanted to talk to you alone.” She looks around momentarily, before she settles down in one of the armchairs. 

 

“Right-um-er,” you begin, fumbling to switch the kettle on as you keep your body half-turned towards her. “And, um, have you seen Mycroft a-and Lia?” Violet nods. “And um, how are they? I mean I’ve spoken to Mycroft a little bit of course, but just through text. I-I don’t really know, um, how they are after everything,” you get out. 

 

Violet does not reply at first and you begin to think that perhaps she won’t, but then when you pass her, her cup and settle down with one of your own opposite her she says, “Little Lia’s a bit too young to be properly realizing what’s going on or how permanent it could be I think.” You swallow. You can sense the hope that’s there and you don’t know what to say. All you know is that it seems to surge within your own. “As for my son, well, I’ve never seen him so devastated.” A pang of pain hits your heart and you open your mouth. “Oh, he’s trying to carry on of course and be practical about everything.” She eyes you. “I know he bought you the cottage that you’ll be living in shortly, despite his attempts to try and trick me into believing that he had nothing to do with it. But I'm not stupid dear. As soon as he said that you would be moving soon into a place of your own that was a cottage and near your parents I did a little research on-line and I know, no matter how much money that you’ve built up from your scriptwriting over the years you could not afford that without him. It was, if I may say so, a very generous act for him to be doing considering everything. Though, knowing my son as I do it did not surprise me.”

 

“I'm very grateful,” you’re quick to tell her. 

 

Violet nods. “As you should be,” she announces, which makes you wriggle uneasily and put your cup to the floor. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve come.” You nod, though you can guess quite easily why she might be there. “I’ve come dear,” she says, putting her own cup of tea down and patting at your leg, “To appeal to you on behalf of both Lia and my son. I’ve come because I don’t think that Mycroft feels capable of making the trip himself right now and because someone had to. You see he’s lost F/N, but he’ll be more lost if you don’t come back.”

 

Your heart dips, but once more you try and make someone else understand the cause for your decision. “I know I must look very rash to you, but as a mother yourself Mrs. Holmes”-

 

“Oh, I think I'm still Violet to you”-

 

“Violet,” you nod awkwardly, “I hope you might be able to see that I'm trying to do what’s best for my family.”

 

Violet lets out an exasperated noise. “I’ve heard some rubbish in my time F/N, but that is the worst of it all.” Again your heart sinks hopelessly. “I can’t see how you being so far from where you should be can possibly be the best thing for any of you.” She shifts her position. “Stay here for a bit longer and take some time to yourself in the cottage my son has gifted you, use it as a bolt hole in the future if you must, but go home. It’s not right for you to be here when you should be at home watching your daughter grow up and helping her to become a woman.”

 

You let out a breath. Your fisted hands smooth down the creases in your jeans. “Mrs. Holmes-Violet,” you say, looking at her, “I hope, like you, that I’ll be able to get through all this and go home again someday. Like I’ve told your son already, though, I don’t know how long that it will take. It could take a very long time, but I know that it is the right thing for me to do.” Violet opens her mouth, but you get there first with the words, “You have to understand that it wasn’t easy for me to leave in the first place. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but, and I don’t know how much of it Mycroft has told you, I have these feelings, feelings that I wish I didn't because then everything would be so much simpler. Feelings that have led to all this and”-

 

“I know dear,” Violet says, patting at your hands and you unclench them automatically, “But feelings can be resolved if we talk to the people involved and don’t let them fester”-

 

 _“How?”_ you blurt out. “How am I supposed to tell my daughter that she makes me feel so unloved sometimes? How am I supposed to tell her that I just wish sometimes she’d look at me like she looks at Mycroft? How can I tell her that I wish she didn't hate me?” 

 

“Oh F/N dear she doesn’t. You’re just working yourself up”- Violet begins with a sorrowful expression upon her face. 

 

“She does,” you get out, your face flushed as you stand up. 

 

“I'm sure that if you were to just find a better way of communicating with her”-

 

“And risk putting them through hell again if it all goes awry? I can’t,” you shake your head, “I’ve put them through enough.”

 

“But by staying here you’re just putting them through even more,” Violet protests, “If you were to go back now and everything was to work out then wouldn't that be better? Wouldn't it be better for Lia to grow up with a mother for as much of her life as possible? For my son’s broken heart to start to mend itself? Why are you so determined to stay here and make yourself unhappy?”

 

“This has got nothing to do with my happiness,” you tell her, your face crumpling. “I'm doing it for them. For _theirs.”_

 

Violet gestures for you to sit back down and you do so uncertainly. “Do you know what I see as you sit there in front of me now dear?” she asks, clasping at your hands. You shake your head. “I see a woman who’s confused, who’s hurting and who’s quite frankly being far too hard on herself. Do you think that such a thing as the ‘perfect mother’ exists?” You hesitate. “Well it doesn’t,” she says, gripping at your hands all the more firmly. “We all have our faults and we all feel guilt inside us about something or another. For you it’s because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re a bad mother for feeling jealous that Lia has shown preference to my son. For a lot of mothers it’s about juggling work with home. Do you think that I’ve not spent many a night awake fretting and thinking how I’ve done my boys wrong? Thinking of how if I’d done something differently Sherlock might not have struggled as much as he has? Thinking of how if I’d perhaps talked to Mycroft more at certain points in his life and not convinced myself that everything was all right that he might have opened his heart to someone like you a lot sooner?”

 

You let out a bit of a gasp. “But your boys are perfect.”

 

Violet smiles indulgently at you. “They’re perfectly dysfunctional dear,” she tells you with a pat to your hand. “Just like Lia.” You swallow and nod. “But can you see what I'm trying to say?”

 

“I think so,” you nod. 

 

She pats at your hand again. “You should not let the one worry, which you find yourself worrying about the most define you. You should talk to your family-I include myself in that-and your friends and come to realize that it won’t always be this way. As Lia grows up she will need you even more. If you go home now and take the short-term pain then you will find long-term happiness. That I can promise you. If you work on your marriage to my son and your relationship with Lia then you will come out of the other side of this more happy than you have ever known and you will do so a lot more quickly than if you stay locked up here for months on end. The sooner you can face up to your fears and realize that you have all the support you need behind you, the sooner you can vanquish them.” You nod, thinking about her words. You want to believe in them and believe that a happily ever after could come true, of course you do, but you know too that you can’t handle going home right now. “Promise me that you’ll at least consider my words? Even if it takes you a while to act on them, promise me that you’ll let them filter through?”

 

“I promise,” you nod. 

 

Violet gives you one last serious meaningful look and leaves you just a moment later.

 

*

 

More days drift by and soon its been a month since you left. 

 

“Don’t be sad Daddy,” Lia says one Saturday when Mycroft’s walking around the kitchen beginning to get dinner ready and she’s sat by the kitchen table colouring-in. Mycroft turns to look at her with a furrowed brow. She’s looking at him imploringly. “I know you’re sad about Mummy, but you shouldn't be,” she says.

 

Her words made Mycroft’s stomach swoop, and he steps forward, before he asks her concernedly, “Aren't you sad Lia?”

 

“Not really,” she says, looking down at her picture and biting down on her lip. 

 

“No,” Mycroft says, feeling annoyed with himself and stepping forwards. “I think you misunderstand me.” She looks at him. Her own face is slightly creased. “I don’t mean now necessarily. But Mummy-Mummy’s been gone for quite some time now Lia. Don’t you miss her?” he asks. 

 

She looks down again and makes a f/c line against the paper. “Not much,” she confesses, looking up at him again. “The house is quieter since she left. I can concentrate more now.”

 

Mycroft can’t exactly disagree with her first point, though he’s been finding it rather more difficult to concentrate since you’d left, that’s for sure. Still, he finds it rather difficult to accept the words that are coming out of his daughter’s mouth. “Don’t you want her around though?” Lia stares at him. “I mean”-he struggles and rakes a hand through his hair-“There are certain things that only a mother and daughter can do together after all.” He looks at her. “You must miss her?” he asks persistently. 

 

“I'm fine Daddy. I'm just happy that Mummy can’t give you any more lines,” Lia says, before she goes back to her drawing. 

 

But as much as he’s sure the statement about the lines is true Mycroft feels that the general sentiment is false. For how can Lia really be as well settled and contented, as she seems on the outside to have been if not this past month then certainly for these past three weeks? She must miss you. More than that though she must be feeling pain inside her. Pain that she’s just buried deep inside. Mycroft frowns. He doesn’t want his daughter to become like him and hide her emotions. He wants her to be more like you. He can’t help but think that Lia needs you. Needs the steady presence of her mother in her life. Yet if you’re not showing any signs of coming back, which you aren't, then he supposes that he’ll have to look elsewhere to provide Lia with such security because as much as he hates it he knows that it’s not right to make Lia suffer through uncertainty for months and years on end. He turns away for a moment towards the counter, before he looks back at Lia over his shoulder. He smiles at first because Lia’s got her tongue stuck out, whilst she concentrates on her drawing, but then a great surge of pain hits him and he has to look away. How many times has he seen you sitting somewhere, usually with your laptop in front of you, and your tongue stuck out in the exact same position? He bites down on his lip. You’re not there he reminds himself. He has to be sensible and logical about all this just as Mummy had suggested. He has to do what’s best for Lia and Lia needs a mother. Some sort of mother at least. That Mycroft can’t deny, and though he can’t ever see himself with anyone but you, he thinks that perhaps he should sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of Lia’s. Surely that would be the right thing to do? For if she can be happy and grow up in a stable home with him, and-and someone else who can provide that, at the very least just to fill this gap until you return, then that will surely be for the best. The question is who could that someone else be? The teacher he’d once thought pretty comes to his mind, but anger burns inside him as he remembers that dreadful day at the school and he knows that it can’t be her. His mind drifts to Mrs. Potherwaite next. He knows that you would not approve and just the very thought of it feels like a betrayal to you, but you are not here and Lia had seemed taken with her at the previous dinner. Besides, his mind logically points out, Mrs. Potherwaite has already shown an interest in him, which would be helpful as far as keeping up appearances is concerned, _and,_ more to the point, she has two children of her own. Perhaps if Lia and they got on then she wouldn't feel his own absence so keenly when he’s at work and his own guilt would be lessened? She’d have a new mother and a step-brother and sister to keep her mind occupied after all. That would help with her socialization. Mycroft often worries that she might be lonely. 

 

He gives himself a chance to think about it over the next few days; or rather he gives you more of a chance to come home. Then that Friday he leaves work early so that he can pick Lia up, swallow his pride and seek out Mrs. Potherwaite. 

 

“Oh dear,” she says when he taps her on the shoulder outside the school gates as he waits for Lia. She squeezes at his arm. “I’ve been wondering about you whenever I’ve seen Lia coming to school by herself and her being picked up by all manner of people in the afternoon. Are things still not good at home?” 

 

Mycroft draws himself up and swallows. “F/N has left me Mrs. Potherwaite,” he announces, “She’s currently residing in Wales.”

 

Mrs. Potherwaite’s manicured fingers go to her mouth. “Oh you poor lamb,” she coos.

 

Mycroft gives her a bit of a tight smile. “Yes, in any case Mrs. Potherwaite,” he says, placing a delicate hand upon her arm. He is barely touching her, but even that feels like a betrayal to you. The whole of his insides squirm. “I'm not here to discuss that. I’d actually like to talk to you about pleasanter matters. Perhaps you could come over for dinner tomorrow night? Your little ones are invited too. I’d like to get to know them, and in any case it would be good for Lia. She doesn’t see many children outside of school.”

 

“Say no more dear,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, looking pleased. “We heartily accept your invitation.”

 

Mycroft forces a smile onto his face at the same time that his stomach drops. What is he doing? What is he getting himself into? You’d be horrified. “Around seven then?” he asks, forcing his cheerfulness, but he already hates all of this. He can picture your e/c eyes looking at him accusingly and that just makes him feel even worse. 

 

Mrs. Potherwaite however doesn’t seem to recognize just how terrible he feels. “That would be splendid dear,” she says, tapping on his arm, before her attention gets distracted. “Oh, here are mine.” 

 

Mycroft turns in search of Lia. 

 

*

 

As Mycroft eats dinner with Mrs. Potherwaite, her two children-Katie and Jonathan-and Lia the following night the mistake he’s made has already started to become even more prominent. 

 

He’d of course been going against his will in the very first place by inviting them here, but after tossing and turning all night and having a nightmare where he thought he was marrying you only to draw the veil up and see Mrs. Potherwaite staring at him, her lips already pursed ready to receive his kiss, and then having told Lia that day about who would be joining them for dinner only to have her look at him as if she’d been wondering why on earth he’d done such a thing, such unease had only grown inside him. When Mrs. Potherwaite had arrived with Katie and Jonathan his feelings had been quickly increased by a headache. The children had been loud and rambunctious from the off, running about as if they’d eaten too much sugar and tearing around the house despite his protests, before they’d chased each other in circles around the kitchen. Lia had stayed out of it and worn a rather haughty expression on her face that Mycroft had felt proud of, whilst Mrs. Potherwaite hadn’t seemed keen to exercise her authority over her children at all. She _had_ been apologetic yes when they’d broken a vase in the living room-thankfully it hadn’t had sentimental value-but hadn’t offered to pay for it. She must think that he’s rolling in money, which he is, but that’s hardly the point he thinks. In any case its certainly made him appreciate Lia’s slightly quieter disposition as well as what he’d taken for granted in you for so long. He cringes as he imagines how you would have probably foreseen this disaster. You’d probably be shaking your head if you could see him now, mostly eating his dinner and letting Mrs. Potherwaite and her children steer the conversation. He can tell that Lia’s unhappy by the way that she keeps shifting restlessly beside him, but they’re all there now so he might as well try and get on it the best he can. It’s probably just a matter of getting used to things for both Lia and him. Once they do that things stand to be better. For Lia at any rate. 

 

After dinner he suggests that Lia should take the other two children upstairs and show them her bedroom. She looks at him as if that’s the very last thing that she wants to do, but after he gives her a bit of a pleading stare, which tells her to trust him she relents and does so anyway. He pushes down the feeling that’s beginning to tell him that Mrs. Potherwaite had been in the right place in the right time before when Lia had needed comforting at dinner and that his daughter does not hold her with any particular favour or high-regard and Mrs. Potherwaite and he proceed to move into the living room with a glass of wine, before they sit down beside each other on the settee. 

 

Mrs. Potherwaite is keen to be close to him from the off. Invading his personal space so that their thighs are nearly touching and darting her pampered hand to his knee every now and again when she speaks. Each time she does this Mycroft finds that he loses track of the conversation for a moment as his eyes dart to look at her hand. He finds himself comparing it to yours. Your hands had been small, so small that he’d been able to cover the both of them at times with one of his. Mrs. Potherwaite’s seem larger somehow. Whilst you’d never been one to give your nails much thought, but Mrs. Potherwaite’s are long, elongated _and,_ he suspects, fake. Her hands look like they've never done a day’s work, but he remembers how quite often yours had been stained with ink or your veins had bulged a little from a hard day’s typing. He remembers stroking them at night sometimes and rubbing cream on them, whilst you’d sat together on the settee. You’d always given him a fond smile, but he’d always given you a bit of a serious, knowing one in return. If you weren’t going to take care of yourself then he would take care of you for you. He comes out of his thought as Mrs. Potherwaite’s hand moves away again and realizes that she is still chattering away happily, oblivious to how ignorant he’s been to much of her words about her group of friends and the various, exotic holidays that they've booked for over the summer. He gets the feeling that Mrs. Potherwaite would quite like it if _he_ were to take her on an exotic holiday to far flung destinations, but whether she moves in with him or not he feels adamant that, that is something which he’ll never do. Besides he senses that the people she talks about are more ones she gossips about and competes with rather than actual friends. But then her words die down into an amused kind of chuckle and they both sip at their wine in a polite silence. 

 

“Well,” Mrs. Potherwaite says at last, turning towards him a little more after resting her glass delicately down on the floor and touching at his knee again. Mycroft forces a smile at her, though his eyes can’t help but go to her hand and think of you again. “Perhaps now that the children are upstairs we can get down to the business end of the evening.” Mycroft’s throat goes suddenly dry. He knows that this is it. This is the moment where he either has to commit properly to this new venture or take a step back and become fully resigned-if you do not return-to the life of a single parent. Thinking of Lia and what’s best for her Mycroft turns slowly towards Mrs. Potherwaite. Her hand further tightens on his knee and their eyes meet. Mycroft’s inside worries are masked by cool, calculating eyes, whilst Mrs. Potherwaite looks at him steadily. “I am no fool dear,” she says, “You might have thought that your invitation was surrounded by a mask of mystery”-and damn Mrs. Potherwaite for her words because now she’s just got him thinking of your eyes beneath the masquerade mask-“But they were not I assure you.”

 

“No?” Mycroft asks, his throat still dry. 

 

“I know exactly why you called me here,” she rubs at his knee, _“And_ why you invited the children.” Mycroft swallows, but he can’t seem to speak so he just stares at her. “You want to become a proper family yes?” Mycroft slowly nods. “Unite our children together?” Again Mycroft nods. “Well,” Mrs. Potherwaite says, releasing her hand from him and drawing herself up, “I can’t say that I blame you dear. I think, if you don’t mind me saying so, that there was chemistry between us since the day we met and that this was rather inevitable whatever had happened with poor F/N.” Mycroft’s heart pangs, but a sudden annoyance pumps through his veins. “I also think that you probably know in your heart that you should have been with someone like me from the off and not wasted time with F/N. I can see her appeal of course,” she sniffs, “A lot of men go for a younger woman.” Again Mycroft feels that thrum of irritation spark inside him. He had not been with you because you were young. Age had never come into it and again he can’t help but wonder what on earth he is doing here with a woman who clearly has no idea about the type of relationship he’d had with you let alone any respect for it. _“And,”_ she taps at his nose, which makes it wrinkle automatically, but he moves towards her more in spite of himself, “No doubt you have found out what a lot of men in that situation do. That being with someone young might be a pleasurable momentary experience, but when it comes down to it they are not suitable prospects to be settling down with. I, on the other hand, as an experienced woman and who is, if you don’t mind me saying so, a dab hand at all this mothering business, can offer you a much better future.” She slips her hand onto his inner thigh and Mycroft lets out a breath. He lowers his wine to the floor and slips a hand onto her waist. They both seem to sink down a little as he does so. He’s barely touching her, but his heart is pounding because of the situation. Her eyes graze across his and he tilts his head closer. Her eyes flutter a little and she leans back, forcing him to shift even closer, so that he can reach her. Her eyes open wider and she smiles teasingly at him, her hand on his shoulder, stroking at the material of his jacket, before she suddenly moves closer herself. There’s barely any distance between them now and Mycroft can feel her breaths ghosting across his skin. Her eyes shut and she waits for him. He swallows. Her lips are thick with lipstick, fat and stained a little from the wine. He thinks that kissing her would be like swallowing a slug. One dolled up as if for the opera. He thinks of you. Thinks of how your soft and slightly chapped lips couldn't have been any more perfect, of how inviting they’d been. He blinks. He hears a noise that might be a playful cry from upstairs and his mind thinks of Lia. He has to do this. You are not here. You are not here and he is not betraying you. This is just him trying to be practical and think of the future. For Lia’s sake he moves obligingly forwards at last, but just as their noses nudge together and his own lips begin to part he finds that he has to pull back. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he breathes, letting go of her. “I-I can’t do this.”

 

Mrs. Potherwaite’s eyes open and she lets out a sigh as if he’s disappointed her, which he no doubt has. She twists around and picks up her wine. She tastes a bit of it. “Too soon?” she asks. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, blowing out a breath, inching away from her and creating a more respectable distance between them. 

 

“Perhaps in time though?” she muses. 

 

Mycroft swallows. “I'm sorry Mrs. Potherwaite, but I just don’t think that I can,” he says, picking up his own glass, but choosing to stare into its depths rather than drink any of it. 

 

She nods and stands up. As soon as she does so Lia comes rushing into the room. “Daddy! Daddy!” she wails, her face flushed and her eyes stained with tears.

 

Mycroft goes on the alert at once. “What is it Lia?” he asks, standing up. 

 

She throws herself into his arms. “They’re being mean to me.”

 

“Mean how sweetheart?” Mycroft asks at the same time that Mrs. Potherwaite, looking embarrassed for once in her life, mumbles, “Perhaps we should go?” Mycroft nods distractedly at her, but much of his focus remains on Lia. 

 

Lia however just shakes her head and snuffles against him. She refuses to say a word more until Mrs. Potherwaite and her children are gone and she’s tucked up in bed with Mycroft sitting on his knees on the floor beside the bed. Then she toys with his hair absent-mindedly as she says, “I don’t know why you invited them Daddy.” Mycroft looks at her with a sinking heart. His earlier thought about how she doesn’t like Mrs. Potherwaite that much seems to be confirmed. “They’re too loud,” Lia further explains, “As soon as they got into my room they started putting things out of order and messing things up. They were just being silly all the time.” Mycroft opens his mouth, feeling guilty for bringing this situation upon her and for not taking much notice when he’d first come into the room and seen that it was a little more dishevelled than usual. “You know when all the other children were being mean about Uncle Sherlock and Mummy before?” she goes on. Mycroft nods. “Well, it was mostly them,” Lia confesses. 

 

Mycroft’s face falls. How could he have made such a mess about things? “I'm sorry sweetheart,” he says, trailing a hand through her hair, “If I’d known that then I would never have let them come.”

 

Lia nods and toys with his hand, before she explains desperately, “I just want it to be us Daddy. I know you’re sad, but children like that would never have stuck to the timetable.”

 

He smiles a little, feeling a little better in spite of himself. “No, I suppose that they wouldn't have,” he murmurs. Lia looks at him. “Come,” he adds, making to sit on the bed and Lia moves until she’s sitting on his lap. He shifts with her until he’s got his back against the headrest and he’s holding her loosely in his arms, whilst she looks at the wall. “I promise,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head, “That from now on it will be just be us. No more Daddy trying to carry out silly ideas.” They both smile. “How does that sound?”

 

“It sounds wonderful Daddy,” she says sleepily, wriggling a bit against him. 

 

“I'm glad,” he confirms, stroking at her hair again. 

 

*

 

Despite the fact that he’s decided not to ever again try to replace you Mycroft can’t deny that it’s probably more than a sensible idea for him to get a babysitter. One who can pick Lia up from school, take her home and look after her until he arrives. He can’t rely on other people’s good will forever after all, and especially with the long summer holidays coming up it seems like a necessary thing to do. He tells you about it and though you react predictably in not seeming pleased by the idea you seem to grudgingly accept that he can’t manage by himself. So he gets the ball rolling on it as quickly as possible in the hope that Lia will then have a bit of time, before the holidays start to get used to the person who she’ll be spending the majority of the six weeks with. With the only stipulation that the person must be a woman, for he cannot imagine ever leaving Lia with a strange man, he does some research and draws up a list of possible candidates. He then gets Anthea to do some extensive background checks on all of them. Lia might already have her own security detail in place, but you can never be too careful. 

 

Finally the list is narrowed down to one. A Miss. Una Brealey who originally hails from Yorkshire. A quiet and studious woman in her late twenties Mycroft hopes that the calm demeanour she’d shown when he’d met her and her experience of looking after her own siblings, as well as other children besides, will help make the transition for Lia easier. It is of little surprise to him though when Lia initially grows upset by the idea. 

 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she whines one night when she’s tucked up in bed and Mycroft’s told her about how Miss. Brealey will be picking her up from school the following day. 

 

“You’re seven darling,” Mycroft reminds her. “Besides,” he says, tickling her to try and re-gain her favour, “You didn't seem to mind her too much when she popped over the other day. She helped you finish that jigsaw puzzle didn't she?” 

 

“Daddy!” she protests, swatting his hands away. But Mycroft is encouraged by the smile that’s on her face. “I like it when you pick me up. If it can’t be you then why can’t it be Grace’s Mummy or Daddy? Or Uncle Sherlock? Or _someone?”_

 

“Because darling,” Mycroft begins patiently, “Grace’s parents have lives of their own, as does Uncle Sherlock.” _For all of his sins,_ Mycroft thinks. “Besides, wouldn't you feel better from having one person regularly picking you up from school?” Lia doesn’t say anything. She just pouts and Mycroft can tell that his words are true. “Let’s just give it a go hmm?” he says, squeezing at her hand. “If you really don’t get on with her then we’ll have to find someone else, but I would really appreciate it if you could try your best with Miss. Brealey sweetheart. It would be such a weight off my mind.” 

 

“You said it would just be us,” Lia says, folding her arms and leaning back as she stares mutinously at her duvet. 

 

“It will be,” Mycroft reassures her, before he adds, “Miss. Brealey won’t be invited to dinner,” which instantly makes Lia look happier. 

 

*

 

To his relief though after a bit of a tentative beginning where Lia seems to accept Miss. Brealey’s presence grudgingly things soften between the two of them and not even his stubborn-minded daughter can come up with any complaints. 

 

*

Life moves on and though Mycroft’s heart aches with your absence every day he feels more comfortable in one sense in the knowledge that Lia’s finally got more of a stable routine going again. His mind though does not stop from wanting you back, and, through keeping a constant eye on you via the men he’s got as your security detail, it doesn’t take him long, before he learns that you’re drinking again. The cottage may have given you more freedom, but it has also allowed you to slip back into your old ways. He deposits a large amount of money into your bank account and sends you a text telling you to go to the London clinic. You send him a rather drunk, garbled one in return, which basically takes the tone that he should stop watching you and stay the hell out of your business. He knows that the real reason you’re angry though is because, albeit from a distance, he’s witnessed you failing again, something that you’d wished to avoid. Armed with that knowledge he phones you from his office the following day. 

 

To his surprise you pick up. “What do you want?” you ask, and Mycroft realizes that the only reason you’d picked up is because you’re angry and half-drunk. He checks the time. It is a quarter-past one. He can picture the scene. You getting up late that morning and having perhaps a unhealthy breakfast at the most, before you’d slipped back into bed or rolled onto the settee with the alcohol of your choice. He can’t help but frown and feel the now familiar ache in his chest. “Oh great. Are you prank calling me now?” you ask him irritably when he takes so long to reply. 

 

“F/N,” he begins firmly, “You can tell me to stop watching you all that you like, but for your own good you need to go back to the clinic. You must know that. You are my wife, the mother of my child. If you think that just because you now live in a different country that I'm going to stop caring for you then you are most mistaken my dear.”

 

“Don’t call me that,” you say, on guard, before you add moodily, “And for your information not everything’s about you.”

 

“I”-

 

“Apparently missing deadlines because you’re a drunk failure doesn’t make you popular no matter how good the stuff you’ve written about before was.” You swallow and let out a shaky breath. “I’ve been dropped from any future projects. No one’s interested in me. I'm jobless, so you can add that to your list of how I'm a failure.” 

 

“My dear I”- he begins, but you disconnect the call a moment later. 

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh, feeling devastated and frustrated on your behalf. But he feels relief a few days later upon hearing that you’ve gone back to the clinic and almost a surge of emotion when he gets a simple text from you that says: _Thank you._

 

 **My pleasure,** he writes back, hoping that things might be better for a while. 

 

*

The summer holidays come and go and aside from feeling guilty at the fact that he’s not there much for Lia little else happens. Miss. Brealey and Lia spend their days either at the house or at parks, zoos, museums or other areas of cultural interest, whilst he spends much of his toiling away at the office and you carry on struggling with your feelings and addiction. He deposits money into your bank account whenever he feels that you need it. You send him a short, but polite message of thanks each time, and although that is all that Mycroft hears from you he feels grateful all the same. It keeps the link going between you and brightens up his day, creating a bit of sunshine amongst the grey. You are still out there even though you are not with him. 

 

*

 

It’s not until Lia’s birthday towards the end of September that things change again. 

 

The day starts off normally enough, albeit with Lia in an added height of excitement. He wishes her a happy birthday, hugs her, kisses at her hair and makes her a special breakfast. He takes her to school and promises that he’ll be there to pick her up at the end of the day, so that they can go home and open all of her presents. Lia seems giddier from the fact that he’ll be picking her up from school though than by her presents and it makes Mycroft smile. 

 

When the pair of them return to the house that afternoon though an unexpected surprise is waiting for them both in the form of your parents. 

 

“Granny! Grandpa!” Lia says, looking up at Mycroft excitedly, before she tears away from his side and rushes over to hug them. 

 

“Oh Lia!” your mother says, “It’s so nice to see you. Are you having a good birthday?” 

 

“Yes! Daddy picked me up from school,” Lia says excitedly and Mycroft joins them awkwardly. 

 

“Mr. L/N. Mrs. L/N,” he nods at them. 

 

Lia clutches his hand and beams up at him. 

 

“Hello,” your mother says evenly to Mycroft, before she turns her attention back on Lia and says, “Well, we might have something that will help make your birthday even more special,” in a cautiously excited tone, gesturing at the blue plastic bag that your father is holding. He gives it a little shake and whatever’s inside crinkles temptingly. 

 

“You brought presents?” Lia exclaims. 

 

“Yes,” your mother says, “If we can go inside then you can open them.” Lia looks at Mycroft imploringly, and he knows that she just wants him to hurry up and open the door, but he can’t help but eye your parents with a frown. He knows from his own men that you’ve kept yourself inside all day and it doesn’t take much for him to guess that you’ve probably spent the majority of Lia’s birthday drinking just to get through it. He hopes that nothing more alarming than that has happened, though his mind logically tells him that your parents wouldn't be here if it had. When he’s just about to open his mouth to try and establish this fact however your mother asks, “I hope us coming is all right?” a little severely. “I know that things have fallen to a certain low point between my daughter and you Mr. Holmes, but we are Lia’s grandparents after all.”

 

Mycroft’s face softens a little. If they've only come to visit Lia then he can find no fault with that. “You are of course welcome to see her as often as you like,” he says with a bow of his head. “Is F/N?”- he can’t resist adding a little awkwardly. 

 

“I expect that she’s doing as well as can be expected today,” your mother says stiffly. “Alice said that she’d pop by later to keep her company.”

 

Mycroft nods, before he thinks it a wise idea to open the door. Lia is almost tap dancing she’s so excited to get in. 

 

Once they've converged in the living room Mycroft goes to fetch tea for everyone and then he stands near where your parents are settled on the settee, whilst Lia sits expectantly on the floor as she waits for her first present. 

 

“That’s from the both of us,” your mother says, passing her the first gift from the plastic bag. 

 

Lia smiles at both of her grandparents, before she tears into the silver, rectangular package with reckless abandon. Her face soon turns into puzzlement however when out slips a copy of the Bible. Mycroft feels a sudden uneasiness at seeing it too. For giving Lia a colourful, cartoon treasury of Bible stories when she was younger is one thing, but giving her the full, unedited version of it when she is still only eight is quite another. He can’t help but think that this is your parents showing him that they’re still distrustful of him after all this time. For he senses that they have given it to Lia because she is now living with an atheist and because they do not want her falling down the same route. It’s not as though you were particularly religious yourself though, he thinks. Despite his reservations though as he looks at the way that Lia studies its light brown cover closer and begins to rifle through its thin pages tentatively he knows that he’ll leave the decision of how religious his daughter ultimately becomes up to her. Religion might be responsible for a lot of bad things, but it’s brought a lot of light into people’s lives too, and, especially after recent events, Mycroft wants his daughter’s life to be filled with as much light as possible.

 

“I know it’s a bit of an odd present to give someone who’s still so young,” your mother admits, “But if you ever want guidance Lia dear then you might find that reading it will help.”

 

Lia looks up at her curiously, before she closes the Bible and lets it slip down to the floor. Apparently, even though certain words haven’t yet been said, she’s ready for her next present. 

 

“What do you say Lia?” Mycroft utters a gentle reminder. 

 

“Thank you Granny. Thank you Grandpa,” she says, going up to kiss them both on the cheek in turn, before she goes back to her position on the floor again. 

 

“Very good,” Mycroft bows his head approvingly when she looks at him. 

 

“There’s one last gift for you in here,” your mother says, pulling out a large, square box from the blue plastic bag. The box has been wrapped in multi-coloured paper. Lia’s eyes goggle at it. Mycroft can tell that she’s transfixed by it. “Perhaps you should open this card first to see who it’s from,” your mother adds, before she passes Lia an envelope whose blue colour matches the bag. 

 

Mycroft feels a pang as he sees your familiar handwriting spelling out Lia’s name on the front. Lia doesn’t seem to realize it’s from you though until she slips the card out and flips it open. Her face falls. Feeling a jerk of a sort of knowing surprise Mycroft murmurs, “May I see the card Lia?” in an attempt to take control of the situation. 

 

She looks up at him. Her face is already flushed with colour, her eyes are wavering with tears and her bottom lip is trembling. Mycroft has seen that look on her before. It happens when she’s a mixture of being confused, frustrated and scared. He crouches down and holds out a hand. She passes him the card. There’s a large eight emblazoned on the front that’s been made up of lots of animals, all twisting this way and that with huge smiles on their faces. He spots a shaggy, yellow dog, a green crocodile and a stripy tiger, before he flips the card open. Inside with a blue pen you’ve written: _Darling Lia, I hope you get everything you want this birthday, lots of love Mummy._ You've also left a few kisses. One of them is slightly smudged and Mycroft wonders if you’d been crying when you’d written it. Whatever the case though he can sense the sadness that you can’t bring yourself to see your daughter on your birthday radiating out from it. 

 

He looks back up to see that everyone’s got their eyes on him intently. His first priority is of course Lia. He clears his throat. “Why don’t you open your present from Mummy now sweetheart?” he asks. 

 

He expects a grin to bloom back onto Lia’s face and for her to readily agree, but to his surprise she shakes her head. “I don’t want to,” she says a little sadly, avoiding his gaze, before she looks up at him imploringly, “Can I open yours?”

 

“Later,” he assures her, sitting down on his knees and stroking at her hair. “But Mummy’s gone to a lot of effort to get this for you and your grandparents have taken a lot of trouble to deliver it. I'm sure they’d appreciate it if you could open it in front of them now sweetheart.”

 

Lia looks only more upset by that. Evidently she’d been expecting to get her own way. “I don’t want to! I don’t want to!” she bawls, flailing her fists and crying loudly. 

 

“Shh, shh sweetheart,” he says, pulling her close until she’s standing in between his now outstretched legs. “Please don’t cry.” He places one hand on her back and the other on her side and Lia buries her head into his shoulder, before she lifts it up again, hiccuping and crying still. 

 

Your mother is so upset by the sight of her granddaughter crying that she has to go out. It takes your father one moment of hesitation, before he goes after her. 

 

“I don’t understand Daddy,” Lia whines as soon as they've gone to take momentary refuge in the driveway, looking at him desperately. Mycroft wipes at her face with a tissue. “I thought Mummy was gone?”

 

“But it’s your birthday sweetheart,” Mycroft reminds her. “Mummy still cares and love you. Don’t you remember me telling you that?” he asks, stroking at her hair. “She still wants to be part of your life.” He rubs at her back and shoulders. 

 

“But then why is she not _here?”_ she asks, tears of confusion upon her face. 

 

Mycroft wipes some more of her tears away. “Sometimes,” he begins, whilst her hands fiddle with his hair and she hiccups as she stares at him. “When we’re hurting or when we’re recovering from something like Mummy is with her illness we want to protect ourselves from more pain.” 

 

“But how would coming here today have hurt Mummy?” Lia asks, still not understanding. 

 

“Because she misses you darling,” Mycroft says soothingly, rubbing at her hair with his forefinger and thumb. 

 

“Then why doesn’t she just come home?” Lia asks, getting all the more upset.

 

“Because she doesn’t think she can,” Mycroft says with an honest truth about his voice. “I think she’s so worried that she’d make you unhappy if she was here that she finds it easier to stay away.” 

 

Lia still looks confused. “That doesn’t make any sense Daddy.”

 

Mycroft lets out a soft breath. She’s still so young. “How about that present now?” he asks. “We could open it together,” he suggests when Lia looks at it warily. She nods. 

 

Slowly they pull back the colourful wrapping and discover the cardboard box beneath. Tentatively Lia opens the top of it, before they brush away the protection to reveal the small and delicate grey typewriter that lies there. 

 

“What is it Daddy?” Lia asks curiously as Mycroft pulls it out. 

 

“A typewriter darling.” He places it on the floor. “People used to use them for typing up all sorts of documents. They’re very traditional and this one looks very pristine.” 

 

Lia looks in between him and the device curiously for a moment. “But why would Mummy give that to me? She knows that I can use the home computer,” she says.

 

Mycroft knows the answer without even having to think about it. He feels it in his heart as if its always been resting there. “I expect that she wanted you to use it if you felt like writing your own stories sweetheart. She wanted it to help you get lost in your own imagination, especially if you’re feeling sad because that’s one of the way’s that’s always helped her feel better.” Lia looks at the typewriter thoughtfully and Mycroft strokes at her hair. He hopes that one day she might understand that this was your attempt at forming a connection with her from a distance. Hopes that somehow your relationship with Lia might yet be able to grow into something wonderful. 

 

*

 

After more presents, cake, and dinner with your parents who then leave for the hotel they’re staying in, Mycroft settles down on the settee with a glass of scotch and watches as Lia looks through the Bible curiously. Mycroft wonders if she’s trying to work out what guidance could possibly be in there for her amongst the jumble of old words and stories. 

 

The typewriter remains off to the side, but every now and again he catches Lia looking at it with both some stubbornness and intrigue about her face. He gets the sense that she’s trying to avoid the act of studying it properly because her feelings are so confused about you. Finally, in an attempt to address the situation, he says gently, “I could clear a special space for the typewriter in your bedroom if you wanted me to?”

 

Lia looks at him hurriedly, flushing a little. “I'm fine Daddy,” she says, looking down, before a moment later she looks back up at him and asks, “Do you believe in God Daddy?”

 

Mycroft considers the question for a moment. “I don’t,” he finally answers, “But just because I don’t doesn’t mean that you can’t.”

 

Lia hurriedly closes the Bible and throws it aside. Mycroft winces at the sound of it as it thuds against the floor. “If you don’t believe in God then I'm not going to believe in him either Daddy,” she says loyally, getting up and coming to sit down next to him with a fierce expression upon her face. 

 

Mycroft gives her a rather indulgent smile, swallows his latest mouthful of scotch, puts his glass down and strokes at her hair as she leans into his side. “It’s your choice sweetheart,” he tells her, “I'm not going to disagree or stop you from reading the Bible if that’s what you want to do. Similarly if you want to go to church then I will take you. But just because I don’t believe in God Lia doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in other things.” Lia looks up at him and he glances tenderly down at her, before his eyes swivel to the wall. “I believe in family, _and,_ thanks to your Mummy I believe in love too.” 

 

Lia pulls a bit of a face. “But you don’t _still_ love her?” she asks, as if she already knows what the answer is. She snuggles closer to him. 

 

“I know it might be hard to understand, but I do. In fact I feel sure that I’ll still love her on the day I die.” Lia pulls back from him in astonishment. Her face is full of confusion. He looks at her. “You don’t understand?” he asks. 

 

Lia shakes her head. “Mummy was really mean to you Daddy and now she’s gone. How can you still love her?”

 

Mycroft hesitates. “I love her for a lot of reasons darling. I expect you won’t perhaps fully understand until you fall in love yourself one day.” Mycroft pauses. The thought’s not a welcome one to him. In fact it only makes him worry more. “But to put it simply I love her because she makes me feel things that I thought were lost, and, of course because she helped give me you.”

 

“But she gave you all those lines too,” Lia protests, still not understanding the precious, delicate love that had bloomed between her parents despite other’s attempts to quash it. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath. How he wishes that feelings were easier to explain sometimes! “Yes, but those lines are partly my own fault,” he goes on to tell her, “It has always been natural for me to worry. I expect that I would have got them eventually in any case.” Lia still doesn’t look happy and getting to the heart of what he suspects her true problem is, he asks, “How do you feel about Mummy?” Lia shrugs, but it speaks volumes. He can tell just by that and by the look on her face that she feels confusion, hurt, anger and sadness towards you. “Again,” Mycroft continues, “As with God I am not going to tell you how you should feel about Mummy. But I want you to know that no matter what Mummy will always love you, as will I.”

 

*

 

 **I thought you might like to know that I installed the typewriter in Lia’s room today. It’s now overlooking the window. I thought that being able to see the outside might inspire her writing.**

 

 _Has she used it yet?_ You ask. 

 

 **A little. I think she’s a bit nervous,** Mycroft confesses. **Though I'm sure she’ll be filling the house up with the sound of it soon F/N.** You don’t automatically reply, so Mycroft adds, **Any luck on the job front?**

 

_Not yet. Apparently being a moderately successful writer doesn’t qualify you to serve coffee._

 

Mycroft wants to say that, that’s because you’re far too talented to be dishing out other people’s coffee, but not knowing how you might react to that when you’ve fallen so low in your head already he sends, **I know that you have no wish to return to London, but it would be far easier for me to arrange a job for you here than where you are now. Even if you did not return home, but just lived somewhere else you should know that I could probably find you a nice little job within half a day.**

 

Again a bit of time passes, before you reply, _That’s kind of you, but I need to do this on my own. You can stop paying my bills too. I might be jobless, but I’ve got some money saved up. I can manage._

 

**I'm sure that you can, but that money you’ve got is better off being saved for a rainy day. In any case I don’t know why you feel the need to punish yourself so much F/N. Haven’t you been through enough?**

 

You don’t reply, but you end up at the clinic again a few days later. Once you come out you end up flitting between part-time jobs back in Wales. Mycroft never stops paying your bills when you’re struggling.


	13. Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty deals his final hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I know I say this every week, but thank you so much for all your support! :D I love hearing your thoughts so as usual feel free to leave them. :)

Time moves on and Mycroft sends you little text updates about Lia’s school work. Each bit of trivia about your daughter hurts, but it’s nothing compared to how that first Christmas feels. You spend most of it at your parents with them, Alice and Darren. Everyone seems to be trying to be extra jolly on your behalf, but your heart aches. Ever since she was born you’ve never spent a Christmas away from Lia. Your memory goes back to early morning kisses with Mycroft and Lia running in and jumping on the bed, yelling that you should both get up because Santa’s been. That had been before she was five, because at that point, thanks to her precious Uncle’s involvement, she’d learnt that Santa doesn’t exist. Still, you try to forget that because if you don’t then you’re just going to feel irritated with Sherlock all over again. Instead your mind goes back to being in the living room in your dressing gown and to how you’d tried to console your daughter as you both waited for Mycroft, who had insisted on getting fully dressed, before he came down. Mycroft and you had then snuggled close and watched as Lia ripped open present after present. You wonder if the house will be as vastly decorated as it usually is. Something inside you tells you that it won’t be and it makes you feel sad. You miss having mince pies with Mycroft in the afternoon, phone calls from family and friends throughout the day and Lia’s excited chattering about her new toys. Miss cuddling up to your husband in front of the fire in the evening and miss his soft words lulling you to sleep. A tear leaks out of your eye now and you feel glad that you are away from your family and back in the cottage as you carry out this reminiscing. You think about texting or calling Mycroft. You just feel like you want some contact with him. You get out your phone ready to, but then you lose your nerve. What are you supposed to say? _How was your day?_ You heave out a sigh, but just as you’re about to slip your phone back into your pocket it rings. “Hello?” you say as you answer it tentatively without checking the number. 

 

“Hello,” Mycroft responds equally as cautiously. 

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ you get out a little breathlessly. 

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Mycroft murmurs. “You see I wanted to speak to my wife properly today. I hope you don’t mind?” 

 

“N-No,” you say, before you swallow. You don’t say anything else for a long time. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft finally says, growing concerned. 

 

You let out a soft, fluttery breath and your lips rub anxiously together as you try to work out what to say. “Mycroft I-I”- you swallow. “Its been a while. Don’t you think that maybe-I-well-maybe it’s time we started thinking about a divorce?” It’s not what you want, but with the New Year so close it seems like a practical thing to set in motion. 

 

“If I believed that was what you wanted then I would of course oblige,” Mycroft says knowingly. 

 

You feel a little irritated with him for always reading you so well. “So what are you going to do? Hold me hostage to you by our wedding contract? What if I meet someone, o-or _you_ meet someone?” 

 

There comes a long pause from Mycroft’s end. “Then we will have to have another conversation,” is what he finally says, “But I, just so that you’re aware, have no intention of ever marrying anyone else.”

 

Quite honestly you don’t think that you do either. You've got a family. You don’t want or need another one. But you can’t help but state, “We don’t live together though. Isn't it a little strange to keep the title of husband and wife when we don’t even live in the same country?” You swallow a little, before you add, “I don’t want to become the Welsh version of Mrs. Potherwaite.” Mycroft clears his throat uncomfortably. “Oh no,” you say, sensing that something’s wrong, “What did you do?”

 

“Well,” Mycroft begins in his most placating tone, “About a month after you left, and please don’t get offended, but I-well-I”-

 

“Please tell me that you didn't invite Mrs. Potherwaite to dinner again?” you exclaim, dread forming inside your stomach. 

 

There’s complete silence for a moment. “I didn't want to,” Mycroft finally protests, “I was trying to think of Lia and about what might be best for her. You still weren’t coming back and”-

 

“Am I hearing this right? You thought that _Mrs. Potherwaite_ of all people might make a good surrogate mother? Mycroft, she’s lived off other people all her life. Okay,” you relent a little despairingly, “I know I can’t exactly say anything myself at the moment, but at least _I’ve_ worked.” 

 

“It was a disaster of course,” Mycroft announces conversationally. 

 

“Of course it was a disaster,” you tell him, before you ask worriedly, “Wait. You didn't kiss her did you?”

 

“No,” Mycroft says, and you heave out a breath of relief. “Though she did touch my knee,” he admits. 

 

“Right,” you say, as you digest this information. “No, I'm pretty sure that I can live with knee touching.”

 

It’s Mycroft’s turn to let out a breath of relief, but he wisely decides to leave out the part where Mrs. Potherwaite’s hand had slid to his inner thigh. He’s not quite sure whether you’d be able to live with _that._ “Good,” he says, before he can’t help but add, “I'm sorry my dear. I felt like I was betraying you.”

 

“Well you weren’t,” you tell him, “I'm the one who walked out on you remember?” You swallow, before you go on bravely, “I think if you really want to kiss someone else then you should. I'm the last person that you should be thinking of.”

 

“There’s no one else that I want to kiss,” Mycroft confesses. You swallow. Suddenly because of his sincerity you feel hot all over and you haven’t even got the fire on. 

 

“I-I, so the Mrs. Potherwaite thing? It was terribly awkward yes?” you say, getting back to a slightly safer topic. 

 

“It was simply awful F/N,” Mycroft acknowledges, before he adds, “Her children were dreadful.”

 

“Of course the children were dreadful,” you tell him, “Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said? Mrs. Potherwaite’s raised them to be just as spoilt as she is.” A sudden image of Mycroft being horrified at Mrs. Potherwaite’s children and him realizing what a mistake he’s made comes to your mind and you feel suddenly close to laughter. It rises up and up inside you until you let a few frantic spurts of it escape. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, wondering if he should get your security detail to break into the cottage or something. 

 

“Oh God, I'm sorry,” you say, practically crying with laughter, and it feels so good to do so because its been so long since you’ve had anything to really laugh about. “It’s just I'm picturing how awkward it must have been and oh God-oh God,” you wheeze and Mycroft raises his eyebrows curiously, “I love you.”

 

Mycroft lets out a little breath. “I’ll have to invite more women over for dinner if you’re going to burst out laughing and end up telling me that each time,” he says in a rather thoughtful voice of seduction. 

 

The sound of your breaths getting gradually softer is all that he can hear for a moment, before you end up breathing, “I miss you…” 

 

“I miss you too my dear. You can’t know how much,” Mycroft says, and you can’t know that he closes his eyes, before he opens them again when he hears you releasing a jerky breath. “Are you sure that you might not return soon? You've been gone so long already. I swear that Lia must have grown two inches at least since you last saw her.”

 

You feel a pang of pain in your heart. “Does she ever talk about me?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft hesitates, giving you all the answer that you need. “Not much,” he confesses honestly. “I have to encourage her, but I know that she misses you. She just keeps it all very deep down. Sometimes I wonder whether I should try and guide her more on her thoughts of you, but”-

 

“She has to make her own mind up,” you conclude. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft breathes heavily. You both fall silent for a moment until Mycroft says, “Thank you for the presents you got her by the way.”

 

“I know it’s not much,” you say, thinking about the three books you’d gotten her. One of them had been a sticker and activity book, whilst the other two had been two of your favourite childhood stories. 

 

“She loves them F/N,” Mycroft reassures you, “I know she does. Especially the stories. We’re just finishing off another book at the moment, but as soon as we do I’ll be starting one of those with her.” You make a little humming noise and Mycroft can tell that you’re getting upset again. “I hope your family spoilt you today?” he enquires. 

 

“Oh yes,” you say rather distractedly, “They were very kind.”

 

Mycroft, sensing that you need to be on your own right now, lets you go a moment later. He gets the feeling that tonight will be another one of those nights where you cry yourself to sleep and he ends up spending a lot of it tossing and turning himself. He feels so frustrated. None of this is right. You should be in bed beside him dreaming of all the fun you’d had that day with Lia. There should be a playful smile about your lips and he should be admiring your face as you sleep, brushing carefully at your hair and staring lovingly at you. Blessing the fact that you’re his wife. He lets out a sigh. There must be something that he can do to try and improve things. Some way of getting Lia and you to communicate with each other that would increase your chances of coming back soon. He rolls onto his back and his mind swirls with all the possibilities. He gets the sense that a proper meeting between the pair of you would not go well at the moment and that even the very idea would make you both resistant. A phone call too would probably be far too confusing and cause you both to stumble. Whilst he can’t help but feel that texts and e-mails would be too impersonal and take too long to really make an impact. Letters then it comes to him and it’s like a light bulb going off in his head. You both love getting lost in different worlds, so the act of writing such letters he suspects will not feel like too much hard work for either of you, and what with Lia having her typewriter he can’t help but feel that the idea is a perfect way of trying to build a connection between you. 

 

*

 

The next day he suggests that Lia does the usual ‘Thank you,’ letters that she would do after Christmas on her typewriter and says that she should also do one for you. 

 

“But I don’t know what to say Daddy,” Lia huffs. 

 

“Well, just thank Mummy for the presents she gave you darling and tell her how much you’re looking forward to reading and using them,” he says, as if the matter is quite a simple one. 

 

She lets out another sigh, before she goes upstairs, dragging her feet as she does so, to do what he’s asked. 

 

When she comes downstairs however and Mycroft rifles through each letter in turn only to discover that Lia has really just written what he suggested she do, he asks her, “Have you really got nothing else that you’d like to say to Mummy?” 

 

“But that’s what you _told_ me to write,” Lia says, looking at him with both frustration and despair in her eyes. 

 

“I know my darling, but that was just to get you started,” Mycroft informs her, feeling a little annoyed with himself for not being more explicit. 

 

Lia frowns and looks at the floor. “What would _you_ write then?” she asks. 

 

“Come,” Mycroft gestures that she should move with him and guides her over to the settee, before he sits down upon it. Lia stands close by and raises her knee, pushing it against the edge of the settee and biting at her lip. 

 

“I think darling you’ve got a good starting point there,” Mycroft says, looking between her and the letter, whilst he treads carefully. “But I'm sure that Mummy would like to hear about what you’ve been doing at school and anything that you’d like to tell her about your friends.” Lia’s brow furrows. “It doesn’t have to be anything complicated,” he adds when he notices her becoming more serious. “Just a little insight into what you’ve been getting up to.”

 

Lia nods, her face slowly clearing and Mycroft can tell that he’s just avoided a storm. “Can you help me?” she asks. 

 

Mycroft nods, before both Lia and he go upstairs, so that they can start work on crafting a better letter to you. 

 

*

 

You’re delighted when you get the letter from Lia. You can tell that Mycroft’s helped her, but receiving it and reading it still feels like a miracle’s occurred and like you’re being gifted something that you don’t deserve. You send Mycroft a thank you text; before you go on to have a little discussion with him that evening about your daughter. You go to bed that night with a smile upon your face and begin to work on your response to Lia the very next day. You get another letter from her not long after and you find that keeping the letters out in a bundle where you can see them encourages you to not drink so much and try to do your best for your family from afar instead. Just like Mycroft had suggested all that time ago, before you’d first gone to the clinic, having this contact with them is a reason for you to get better and you’re determined to do so. You begin to get more hope in your heart. One day you will go back. 

 

With Lia’s third letter you find that Mycroft has enclosed one of his own.  
**F/N,** he writes, his handwriting swirling your name in blue ink, **You cannot know how happy it has made me to see Lia and you writing back and forth together. It has made me so happy in fact that I hope you will not mind when I inform you that I have decided to jump on the bandwagon myself and send you my own letters.  
I fully intend to keep texting and calling you of course, but letters are much more personal. I hope you will not disagree to the idea. You are, as always, held in my highest regard, Mycroft. **

 

Of course you do not disagree. In fact you begin to spend your evenings reading over the letters from both Lia and Mycroft instead of drinking too much. You find that even though Lia only touches on day-to-day life and what has been occurring and not on how she misses you or anything like that, whilst Mycroft too can’t seem to properly open his heart up, they mean the world to you. You caress at the words that Lia’s typed using the typewriter you’d gifted her and Mycroft’s handwritten ones as you read and read, getting to a point where you could practically recite them off by heart. 

 

*

 

Time moves on in a similar manner and things seem better until one night they are not. 

 

It is early evening. You are about to do some reading when your mobile rings. You check it with a frown, before you pick it up at once when you see that it’s from Mycroft. It’s a bit unusual for him to call at this time because usually he’d either still be at work or just have got home and be sorting out food for Lia. You feel a bit uneasy from the off, but it’s only when you hear his rasping breaths coming down the line and no words that you grow cold all over. “Mycroft,” you utter in alarm, before you breathe, _“Lia.”_

 

“Lia’s fine,” Mycroft just about manages to gurgle. You swallow, feeling relieved of course, but still on edge.

 

“What’s going on?” you ask him urgently. 

 

“When I got home today,” Mycroft says in a grave voice, “John and my brother were there. Sherlock had dismissed Miss. Brealey and I was annoyed. Lia was happy,” he goes on, and you think that you detect a crack in his otherwise firm exterior. “Apparently John and her Uncle had turned up a little after she’d gotten back from school and she’d been making some punch and cakes with them. She wanted me to try them. I could tell that something wasn’t right, but I couldn't focus properly on what it was because she was so persistent. Why is our daughter so persistent F/N?” he’s growing desperate now and your heart skips a beat in worry. “She made me sit down and try some”-you can picture Lia dragging Mycroft over to the kitchen table-“I felt odd, befuddled. I wanted to talk to you. There were so many things that I needed to tell you, that I _need_ to tell you, but now is not the time”-your heart contracts painfully-“I got my phone out, ready to do so. My head felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. I could barely lift up the phone. The next thing I knew I was waking up. Lia had been beside me, but now she was gone. My laptop was missing. I feared that Sherlock and John had taken it”-

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ you utter, beginning to feel afraid. “Please tell me that Lia’s all right?” 

 

“Of course she’s all right. I told you that she was didn't I? You told me that she would be all right when she was first diagnosed with autism didn't you? I believed you then, so why can’t you believe me now?” he asks, and there’s both an anger and impatience in his tone.

 

Still there’s something screaming inside you that something is very wrong here. “Is she there now?” you ask, “Can I speak to her?” 

 

“You can’t speak to her,” Mycroft says in a voice that you’ve never heard before. It’s all defeated and it makes your heart ache and ache. 

 

“Mycroft”-

 

“I looked everywhere for our baby girl F/N, but I couldn't find her. She was nowhere in the house or garden. I called her name over and over. I thought that she might either be frightened or playing”-

 

“Mycroft where is she?” you ask, standing up, “Where’s our daughter?”

 

 _“Appledore,”_ Mycroft murmurs and the news feels like a punch in the gut, but you don’t even know why. Your mind whirls backwards. You try and remember where you’ve heard that name before. 

 

 _“Magnussen,”_ you say, finally getting it. 

 

“I will do everything I can to find her. Sherlock and John will not let any harm come to her, I am sure of it. I will not fail either of you,” comes Mycroft’s rumbling tone, and he sounds more like himself now, more like he’s managed to wrestle down the fear that’s only just erupting inside you. 

 

“You said that she was all right! You said that she was fine!” you cry, starting to become hysterical.

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“You lied! I can’t believe that you’d lie about that! Where are you?” you ask him anxiously. 

 

“I'm in a helicopter. We’re getting close to Appledore, but we’re still at some distance”-

 

“Oh God,” you cry, running your free hand through your hair as your heart beats unevenly and frantic tears run down your face. “Oh God, oh God.”

 

“Forgive me,” Mycroft says in a softer, but somehow broken voice, “But I had to tell you. I could not bear you sitting in your cottage in Wales and being oblivious to all this.” You understand what he’s not saying. That he _needs_ you. 

 

“I'm coming to London, but keep the line open,” you say, knowing that is what you have to do. 

 

“I don’t”-

 

“I'm _coming,”_ you growl as fiercely as any lioness, before your voice becomes somewhat more understanding as you admit, “I know that I won’t be there for hours yet. I know that I probably won’t arrive until all this is long over, but I need to see you, a-and I need to see Lia.”

 

“All right,” Mycroft relents. 

 

You nod even though he can’t see you, before you keep one ear to the phone as you frantically pack one handedly. You don’t put much in and you call for a taxi from the land line. You leave a message on your parents’s answering service machine, telling them not to worry, but that you’ve gone to London to see some friends. 

 

You clamber into the taxi when it comes, keeping one ear to the phone all the time as you tell the driver to head to Kensington. You know that it will cost an absolute fortune, but you just want one direct route, you can’t be bothered to fiddle with train tickets or to huff as everyone swirls around you right now. You just want to be sitting in the back of this cab and be listening to the low thrum of the helicopter that you can hear through the phone. Listening too to your husband’s soft breathing. Every now and then he makes a little clearing of his throat. It both surprises, but reassures you each time. You hope that the little fluttery breaths that you release on occasion do the same to him. 

 

“I'm on my way,” you tell him finally, just to say something because you suddenly find that you can’t bear sitting there wordlessly any more. 

 

Mycroft makes a little hum to show that he’s heard, but you want more than that. _“Mycroft?”_

 

“I'm nearly there myself F/N,” he informs you, and your heart skips a beat. 

 

“Lia will be all right. I know she will,” you attempt to assure him though you couldn't feel any more scared about the possibility of her not being all right yourself. 

 

Mycroft makes another sound of acknowledgement, but then you hear a great kerfuffle from his end and in the next moment the sound of everything becomes more muffled, as if he has put his phone deliberately face down on the seat. You can still make out the words distinctly however when Mycroft roars, “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do as I say. Put the weapon down and put your hands in the air!” You release a gasp, before you quickly cover your mouth with your free hand. The taxi driver looks at you strangely through the windscreen mirror, but you don’t care. Your hand trembles against your mouth. Where’s Lia? Your mind screams. Is your daughter amongst all this? If she is then why hasn’t Mycroft said her name? What on earth is going on? “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do as I say. Put the weapon down and put your hands in the air!” Mycroft tries again, and you can detect a trace of fear beneath his rumbling tone. It’s faint, but it’s there all the same. Your heart thumps and tears leak out of your eyes as you scrunch your eyes shut and just listen because where is your daughter in all of this? Suddenly-

 

_BANG!_

 

You let out a little shriek. “Lia! Lia!” you yell without even knowing whether your daughter is there or not. You wriggle against the restraint of your seat belt and the taxi driver looks at you as if you’ve gone mad. 

 

“Do not shoot!” Mycroft’s voice roars and you can hear the fear that’s there even more now. “Do not shoot Sherlock Holmes or John Watson!” Your heart feels like it’s in your mouth and it remains there until you finally hear the sound of Mycroft scrambling to pick up the phone again. “I don’t know where Lia is F/N. I'm going to go down there and find out. Magnussen’s dead. Sherlock shot him.” You let out a little gasp. Mycroft doesn’t say anything else for a time. You can hear his uneven breaths as he gets out of the helicopter, before you hear him asking Sherlock and John where your daughter is. You can’t hear the reply, it’s too muffled, but a moment later Mycroft’s on the phone and breathing, “Lia’s fine F/N. Apparently she’s been hiding in the house all along. Sherlock told her not to answer to anybody. Go there and find her will you? I won’t be available for a time. I’ve got to sort this out.”

 

You open your mouth, about to reply, but the phone goes dead. You lower your own, whilst your hands tremble. You know that Mycroft’s got to unscramble what sounds like an awful mess from the little that you know, but you can’t help but feel disappointed by the lack of information, along with the lack of empathy that he’d just shown you, not to mention to the daughter he loves, preferring her to be abandoned safely in the house rather than going to check on her himself even though she might be upset right now. But Sherlock’s in trouble you remind yourself. In deep trouble in fact, and Mycroft has always managed to prioritize well. You feel that old sense of bitterness rise up inside you again. Memories return of you struggling to deal with yet another of Lia’s tantrums or demands, whilst Mycroft had been in work, oblivious to it all. You swallow. You know you’re being selfish right now. Lia could have died tonight, and as that thought comes to you it sets you off again. You have to take deep breath after deep breath, as you try to calm yourself down. The taxi driver eyes you worriedly. “I'm fine,” you tell him, before you burst out into a sob from all your worry and bury your face in your hands. _‘Lia’s all right,’_ your mind chants, _‘She’s at the house. She’s all right. She’ll probably take some convincing to come out, but she’s all right. She didn't get caught up in all this. She’s not dead. She’s not dead, and no matter how annoyed you feel with Mycroft right now you will not take it out on her.’_ Your sobs become gurgles until finally you’re able to lean back against the seat and just pant. Your face is a mixture of being flushed and determined. _'Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.'_

 

You reach London underneath the cover of darkness. The taxi driver pulls up alongside the curb and you get out and pay him, before you swing your bag on to your back and hurry to the driveway. An owl hoots softly as your shoes crunch against the gravel. The house looks large amongst the imposing darkness, but you only have eyes for the light that’s on in the hallway. It reassures you. Somewhere in there is your daughter and she must truly be all right if she’s managed to switch the light on. The door flings open when you’re almost halfway there, revealing Lia in her pink pyjamas. One of her tiny hands remains against the door, holding it back, whilst her eyes stare at you and her lips part. 

 

 _“Lia!”_ you rush up to her. You crouch down and hug her tightly, before you kiss her on her face. 

 

 _“Mummy,”_ she breathes, grasping at your hair a little and that’s the first time that you properly sense that Mycroft had been right and that she does care for you and that somewhere deep down she's missed your presence and she loves you. 

 

“Oh darling,” you pull back from her, your hands on her shoulders, “I'm so glad that you’re all right. Come, let’s get inside.” You feel a little overwhelmed at knowing that somewhere inside that young, delicate heart of hers she does feel all the things that you want her to after all and for a moment you entertain yourself with a fantasy of Mycroft coming home and finding the pair of you getting along just as well as he has always wished you to. You swallow and try and keep calm. If you don't mess things up then perhaps that daydream can come true.

 

But as you straighten up your daughter says in a creepy robotic voice, “I'm glad that you’re here Mummy. There’s someone who wants to see you,” as if she’s reciting something that she’s learnt off by heart. You frown down at her, but she just slips her hand into yours and leads you inside. Once you shut the door behind you she stops and says, “You need to lock the door.” You look at her and that sudden composure that she’d just put on begins to waver. Something flickers across her face and she looks down, before she looks back up again. “He told me to say that”- she tells you and there’s something pleading about her face. “But I didn't want”-

 

“Who told you?” you ask, beginning to feel afraid, “Lia who’s here?” 

 

 _“I_ am,” a familiar Irish voice says. A pit of dread forms in your stomach as your eyes dart from Lia to see none other than James Moriarty padding down the narrow hallway towards you. 

 

You let out a gasp and try to push Lia behind you. “If you’ve done anything to her then I swear I’ll”- 

 

“I haven’t done anything,” Moriarty murmurs, “But I'm about to.” Instinctively your hand fumbles to try and open the door. If you can just get Lia out of there… “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Moriarty says, before he nods to your daughter. You swallow and look down to see a red dot hovering against Lia’s chest. Your hand stops its movement and your eyes go back to Moriarty. You’re trapped. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s in an emergency meeting trying to make Sherlock’s future better when his phone vibrates. He ignores it, but when it just vibrates all the more insistently he slides it out from the inside pocket of his jacket with an, “Excuse me,” and stares at the screen. When he sees the image attachment it is all he can suddenly focus on however, for as soon as he sees it he realizes what a huge mistake he’s made. It’s an image of Moriarty in his house. Standing as bold as brass inside the kitchen where he has breakfast with his daughter every morning, the very kitchen he proposed to you in! It was taken a couple of hours ago, and as he reads the message **-I always wanted a little girl to play with. I can’t wait until your wife gets here too. Then the fun can really begin-** he realizes that the sending of it has been deliberately delayed to come at a time when it might already be too late. At a time when you’ll already be at the house. 

 

“I have to go,” Mycroft utters without hesitation. He’s been such a fool. He should have listened to the inner disappointment he’d felt radiating from you, before he’d even put the phone down and gone to the house. 

 

*

 

“All those years ago in that church you challenged me F/N,” Moriarty says as he paces back and forth a little distance from where Lia and you are sat in the living room. Both your daughter and you are perched on the edge of the settee, your hand upon hers. “Perhaps you’d thought that I’d forgotten, what with all the time that’s gone by. But I was just letting you do all the work, so eventually it would make it more interesting for me.” He stops opposite you and studies you. “Like your husband you’re getting very good at orchestrating your own downfall. All I have to do is give you a little nudge every now and again, wake you up, but you’re practically doing it and writing your own story yourself. Perhaps that’s something you can think of if you ever go back to scriptwriting again,” Moriarty teases and you frown. “It’s little Lia I feel sorry for,” he smiles down at your daughter. 

 

“Leave her out of this,” you growl. 

 

“Like you left her out of your alcoholism?” he raises a playful brow at you and your eyes darken with anger. “Sorry honey, but it had to be said.” He turns his attention back to your daughter. “Now Lia, remember I said that I was going to ask you a few questions earlier on?” Lia nods and your hand tightens upon hers. “Well, now I want you to answer them for me.”

 

“I said leave her out of this,” you say, letting Lia go, standing up threateningly and moving to stand in front of her. 

 

“Who do you love most in the world Lia?” Moriarty asks, ignoring you and still keeping his eyes on where Lia would be as if he can see her through your midriff. 

 

“Daddy,” Lia responds. 

 

A muscle twitches in your jaw, but you let out a little scoffing sound as you look momentarily off to the side. “You can ask her as many things as you like, but”- 

 

“Good,” Moriarty says, once more ignoring you and clapping his hands together. “Hmm, let’s see…and who don’t you like?”

 

“Mummy,” Lia says and the whole of your face wavers. The fantasy that you'd allowed yourself to indulge in earlier comes before your eyes again, but this time it shudders, trembling like mist over dewy grass. 

 

“Why?” Moriarty pushes. 

 

“Because she gave Daddy all of those lines and she left,” Lia replies, but as much as they hurt you, you know inside yourself that her words aren't entirely true. You’d felt how glad she’d been to see a familiar face after hours of confusion, even if it hadn’t been Mycroft’s. Heard in her tone when she’d initially greeted you that part of her at least had been happy to see you again. You know that it must be easy for her to fall back on these old feelings of hurt when she’s questioned about it, know that it’s easier that way because otherwise her head becomes a mess just like yours does when you get too emotional about things. It turns out that you have something in common after all. You just wish that she was a bit older, so that she might understand everything better and be given more space for those warmer feelings to start to come through. But she’s the age that she is and even worse she’s just had the consulting criminal taking advantage of all those negative thoughts and drilling them into her. You look at that man full of loathing. 

 

“That’s right,” he says in a singsong voice. He meets your eyes again. You glare at him and the biggest of smirks plays across his face. “Such a naughty Mummy,” he murmurs, coming forwards and stroking at your wrist. 

 

Your stomach plummets and you feel like you’re going to be sick, but you’re determined to try and stay in control. “I don’t know how you got in here, but this game that you’re playing won’t work. I already know that Lia feels all those things, but I also know that she cares and loves me too. It’s just in a very deep down place that she can’t access all of the time, but I know that now. You’re too late to make me feel otherwise.”

 

“As far as I'm concerned I'm just on time,” Moriarty says, running his finger across your wrist again and making you shiver, before he desists and steps back once more. “You might have been thinking all this time that my focus was primarily on Sherlock, before his fall and then I decided to switch to Mycroft, but the two are all the same to me.” You open your mouth. A prickle of uneasiness creeps higher up inside you. “Sherlock’s downfall, Mycroft’s downfall, _your_ downfall…come here F/N.” 

 

“W-What are you going to do?” you hesitate at the same time that Lia says, “No Mummy, don’t go again.” You look back at her. She’s got her eyes shut and she doesn’t seem to know what she’s saying. Again because of her fear the feelings that she usually keeps suppressed are surfacing. Just like Mycroft’s had when you’d been on the phone to him earlier. 

 

“Come here,” Moriarty repeats silkily, making you look back at him, but when he nods you instinctively look around at your daughter again. There’s now a circular, red light on her forehead. 

 

“Don’t touch her,” you warn, moving forwards on shaky legs. 

 

Moriarty looks amused. “Turn around and kneel,” he says when you reach him. You just look at him for a moment, but when you see that his gaze is unrelenting you do as he wants. “Good,” he purrs, before he places the side of a blade to your neck. You swallow instantly, but Lia, whose eyes are once more open, has a more worrying reaction. She begins to rock back and forth and when you look at her you see that her eyes are bulging. You bite down hard on your lip. “What’s she doing?” Moriarty asks, looking at your daughter oddly, “I don’t like it. Get her to stop.”

 

“It’s her autism,” you swallow, before your lips part. “Lia, focus on me.” Lia’s gaze had been spinning around the room, but now she looks at you. “Good, good girl. I want you to be very still and silent for me all right?” Her eyes seem to protrude even more. Whimpers begin to escape her lips. 

 

“Be quiet!” Moriarty says, his voice louder this time as he puts one hand to his ear and presses the blade even tighter to your throat with his other. 

 

“Lia,” you go on cautiously as your heart pounds and you try not to let all the worry you feel take over your mind. “I’ll get you out of this. I’ll make it all stop. I promise that I will”-or you’ll die trying you think-“But you need to be very still and silent for me now, like you’re playing hide and seek. Like your Uncle Sherlock told you earlier.” Finally Lia’s eyes grow a little less wide and she nods. Her whimpers descend into soft hiccups. “Good,” you murmur, “Good. Your Daddy will be so proud of you.” Lia nods again, looking more mollified, but you can see the tears that are in her eyes. “Don’t hurt her,” you tell Moriarty, tilting your head up a little. 

 

“You see that’s the rather interesting thing,” Moriarty says, “I don’t have to do this,” and with a click of his fingers the red dot disappears from Lia’s forehead. “And I don’t have to do this.” He twists the knife he’s holding and runs the edge of it along your neck. Your breaths hitch in your chest and you have to swallow profusely to calm yourself down. “I don’t have to do any of those things because”-

 

Suddenly you hear a noise at the door and you hear a roar of a helicopter overhead. _Mycroft._ You momentarily close your eyes. He may have his faults, but thank God he exists. _Thank God._

 

Your husband bursts into the room in the next moment and his face, which is white already turns even paler when he sees the sight of you kneeling on the floor and Moriarty holding a blade to your neck. 

 

“Ah,” the consulting criminal says, “Daddy got my message then?”

 

Lia’s eyes light up at Moriarty’s words and she makes to scramble up, forgetting her earlier fear entirely. 

 

Your lips part in alarm at the same time that Mycroft says, “Lia no!” swoops forward and gathers her up, hurling her down on the settee as if she’s a rugby ball. At the same time Moriarty withdraws the knife, grabs at your hair, which makes you gasp out in pain and shoves you towards the settee. You land on the far right side, managing to swerve to avoid Lia, who’s sitting on the middle. As you land you let out a breath, before you instinctively move to partly shield Lia. Mycroft does the same on the other side, but then you let out a gasp as the red dot returns, this time flickering on your husband’s forehead. Mycroft looks at you and his eyes widen a fraction as he understands what’s going on. 

 

“No, no,” you mutter, before you instinctively grab Mycroft’s arm, push him closer towards Lia and wriggle in front of them more yourself. 

 

“F/N no,” Mycroft mutters, trying to push you away, but you manage to cling on to your unsteady position. Moriarty won’t be killing either your husband or daughter today. They both have their faults, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not willing to die for them. 

 

“Weren't you listening?” Moriarty asks with amusement in his tone. Soft pants leave your mouth, but you do not look at him. You can feel Mycroft’s hands around your middle as you balance on the edge of the settee on all fours, holding you to him, hear Lia’s choked breaths radiating from somewhere behind him. “I don’t need to kill your husband or Lia because they've already got a bomb amongst their midst. I don’t need another one.” Your eyes widen a little and you scramble away, moving upward into a standing position as you begin to get a sense of what’s going on here. You can feel Mycroft’s hands trying to pull you back, but you don’t let him. “You told me in that hospital all that time ago to stay away from your daughter. I can see now that you don’t want any harm to come to Mycroft or her, but let’s think about that for a moment shall we? Because in all the time we've known each other _you’re_ the one whose hurt them more than I have. You’re the one who had to leave home and you’re the one who’s been deluding yourself for weeks that you might be able to come back. But you should know that if you do then you’re risking doing what all bombs do. _Exploding”-_ Moriarty makes a big gesture with his hands-“And no one will be able to come back from that.” He pauses for a moment. “Look at them,” he says and you do. Mycroft’s still in front of Lia, his face is pale and you can hear her crying behind him. “Look at what you’ve reduced them to,” Moriarty goes on, and though you can quite clearly see the way that Mycroft is looking at you pleadingly, begging you not to listen to Moriarty and remember all those happy times and the positive feelings that you’d started to feel inside you at Lia’s reaction to you today suddenly it threatens to not be enough. Suddenly it’s as if all your body can feel is the negativity inside you, all the bitterness you’d felt when Mycroft had left you to go to the house alone earlier along with all the fears and dark thoughts that you’ve ever had. For how stupid you’d been to think that you could come back now! Had you forgotten all the pain and destruction you’ve caused? Had you thought that just because you were getting a tiny bit more from Lia in a moment of crisis that you could just go back home after today and everything would be glorious? Had you not thought that as soon as things settled down again they’d go back to the way they’d always been with Mycroft being Lia’s favourite and you on the sidelines? The truth is that you hadn’t. You'd been so caught up in that moment of hope. But you do now. Now you fear that things would go back to how they'd always been and more than that you know that you have to stay away from them to protect them if nothing else. Moriarty’s been using you against them all this time and you can’t allow that to happen any longer, can’t let yourself explode. You mustn't. You let out a breath. “Do you really want to subject them to any more?” Moriarty goes on, sealing your thoughts even more. “Want to finish the job and destroy them? It won’t take much. With Sherlock I had to push and push, but with you, you were ready-made to exploit the weaknesses of the most powerful man in England. All I had to do was sit back and watch. I didn't even have to convince you to do it. You ruined him and you’re now ruining your daughter all by yourself and I have to admit that its been the most delicious fun, so I can’t wait for the grand finale”-

 

“Well you’re not getting one,” you huff, “Because after today I won’t be back here. If you want to destroy them then you’ll have to do it yourself.” With that you make to leave the room. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ you hear Mycroft say, as he remains protectively in front of Lia who begins to wail. 

 

You don’t stop. You keep on going until you’re outside. The sudden cold and impact of what you’ve been through makes you dry heave. You've been a fool. A fool to hope. A fool to not realize before now that you could never go back. 

 

“It had to be said honey,” Moriarty says, patting at your back, before he moves past you. He disappears around the corner in the next moment. 

 

“I hate you!” you call after him, “I hate you!” Even though you know that he’s right. Your heart sinks and you dry heave again. You feel a familiar, gentler hand on your back in the next moment. You look up and turn your head as Mycroft draws level with you. Lia’s clinging onto his leg and the sight of her looking so scared makes you burst into tears. “Why?” you sob. “Why did we bring a child into this world when there are people like that?” You push your head against Mycroft’s shoulder and he brings an arm around you, whilst you cry. You feel angry in the next moment though and you draw your head away, looking at him accusingly out of shiny eyes. “Why did you wait so long until I came to London? You should have got someone closer to go to the house, not left our daughter to that monster. _You_ should have been there.”

 

“You can’t buy into his negativity F/N,” he says firmly, his arm around Lia as she cries and sniffles into his side. “You know why I did not come, and there was no time to get any one else. I shall regret the decision for the rest of my days yes, but if you are determined to blame me then you, if I might say so, are just as responsible.” 

 

“How?”

 

“You left,” Mycroft says, looking at you levelly, “And if you had not then Lia would have come home from school with you and you would have not been so easily hoodwinked by John and my brother. They would not have been able to take the laptop and they would not have been able to drug me.” 

 

You look at each other steadily for a moment. You know that what he’s said is true, and though you feel shocked about him not being gentlemanly enough to ignore it, it’s something that you cannot deny. “I have to go,” you say finally.

 

“Can’t you see that by doing so you are just doing what Moriarty wants you to even more?” Mycroft asks. “Tonight he exploited your weaknesses just like he did with your parents all those years ago. He made you believe that you’re not letting him win if you go, that it’s the best thing, but make no mistake my dear he _wants_ you to go. He’d like nothing better than for us to be all torn asunder forever, but you cannot let him. You have to come back here. You have to stay here for good this time and let us begin to mend all this _hurt."_ He pauses, but when he still sees that you aren't convinced he says, "Look at her," and tilts your head down towards Lia. "Can't you see that she loves you? That she cares for you? Why is that not enough for you?" His fingers push against your chin for a moment, before they let go of you.

 

You swallow, your body trembling as you look down at Lia's shiny eyes as she pulls back her head from her father's side to look at you. You can feel a great pressure building up inside your head. A pressure that tells you to stay, to do what Mycroft wants, what _you_ want, but you're so scared. Too scared of exploding. Too scared of ruining things so completely between you that you just can't. You never want to see Mycroft's blue eyes filled with hatred as he looks at you. “I'm sorry,” you look back at him and try to explain things, “But whatever way you look at it you can’t deny that Moriarty was right. I’ve hurt the both of you so much”-you glance down at Lia again who looks at you desperately as your resolve hardens inside you-“Far more than he ever has.” You look back up at Mycroft. “I should never have come back here at all tonight. When I left I should have left properly. I shouldn't have kept in contact with you both and I shouldn't have allowed myself to hope. I’ve left us all with so much uncertainty, but I have to put that behind me now and go. I have to protect you.”

 

“No,” Mycroft utters, “It is what he wants. Can’t you see?” You turn around, and as you disappear around the corner he murmurs, “My dear,” desperately. But then it is just him and Lia again, standing there forlornly as they clutch at each other’s hands.


	14. One Last Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft never stops hoping that you might return to him one day, but as Lia gets older will he get his wish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> Firstly Happy Halloween to you all! :D 
> 
> Secondly welcome to the end of this fic! It feels like I've been posting this fic for a long time, but the end of it has come quickly all the same so I will miss it and more than that miss getting the wonderful feedback and comments I've had from you. Thanks to you all for your support, but thanks in particular must go to LiraPond who has read this story with such enthusiasm. Thank you and I hope that this final chapter will live up to your expectations! 
> 
> I raise a glass to you all though because your support really does mean everything. 
> 
> Enjoy. :)

In the end Sherlock doesn’t leave the country. Mycroft manages to convince the people who need it that the threat from Moriarty is too great, but you’re too caught up in trying to keep a distance from your family and struggling not to drink too much to celebrate. You have a lot of bad days, especially when Lia never writes to you again. Mycroft of course keeps up his correspondence, although, not wanting to fall into the trap of hope again, you try and keep your responses limited, as you do whenever you talk to him on the phone. He’d managed to persuade you that to have no contact at all would be foolish and that in any case nothing would stop him from trying to communicate with you. Worn down you’d finally relented and let him carry on. Still, the pair of you mainly talk about Lia, whilst Mycroft sends the odd photo of her, though that does not stop yourself from cursing any time that you feel you’re becoming too relaxed and happy in his company. You feel like you have to try and stay serious and stick to your decision of not going back because Moriarty had been right; it _would_ lead to an explosion and you’ve put both Mycroft and Lia through enough as it is. Just because you know that it’s right to stay away however doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt when you hear that your daughter’s going through counselling for what she’s been through. According to Mycroft you leaving again had traumatized her just as much as seeing Moriarty holding the blade of a knife to your neck had. It pains you to think of all the hurt you’ve caused her. You just hope that one day she’ll see that you tried to do what was best for her. It hurts though that you can’t be there for her to help get her through this. Hurts when you see the odd picture of her playing in the garden or by the tiger enclosure that time she’d dragged Mycroft to the zoo. Your husband looks serious in that photo. He’s got a smile on his face as he crouches down yes, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that tells you in reality he couldn't be suffering any more. That tells you this isn't right. That he thinks you should be there with him. He’s got his hands on Lia’s sides and she’s leaning back into him, her head off to the side of his. She looks happier than her father, her smile revealing her teeth, but you can see the change in her too. She’s not just an innocent eight-year-old any more happy to play with toys and get lost in a world of fantasy. She’s been a witness to something that’s changed her and perhaps her feelings towards you have also developed because of what had happened that day. 

 

*

 

Years pass and Mycroft writes on and on. Still you do your best to be guarded with him. You can sense his sadness and frustration because of such a thing, but that’s the way it has to be. You know that if you let things grow too friendly between you then you’ll be tempted and that will just hurt all the more because you can’t go back. You have to stay away for both Lia and Mycroft’s sakes. You do however go back to London for one thing- Mrs. Hudson’s funeral. Even though your memory loss has robbed you of so much of the time that you’d spent with her, you do know that she’s always been so much more to you than a landlady or even a housekeeper, and more like a confidant and friend. You see your friends again and of course your eyes naturally roam about to see if Mycroft’s there. He isn't. That doesn’t exactly surprise you. Mrs. Hudson and he had never been that close, but you’d half-hoped that he might put in an appearance for your sake. You know you shouldn't want such a thing, but you just can’t help it. 

 

When the coffin is being lowered into the ground and you’re standing there feeling cold with tears running down your cheeks you get the odd sense that someone’s watching you. You hesitate a moment, before you look up again. You don’t see anyone paying you particular attention. You just see everyone looking sad about Mrs. Hudson. If you’d looked a moment earlier then you would have seen a tall man with auburn hair and sad blue eyes watching you. 

 

*

 

You return to Wales and life carries on. You carry on working in the office that you’ve now got a permanent job in, in the next town across from the one where you live and Mycroft carries on writing to you. 

 

*

 

One mid-April evening in Lia’s thirteenth year Mycroft finds himself sitting downstairs in the house brooding in an armchair and absent-mindedly drinking a glass of scotch. His daughter comes downstairs. They've started drifting apart more recently much to Mycroft’s chagrin. He supposes that it is only to be expected what with Lia growing older and all, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling sad that she doesn’t want him to read to her any more and that she’s started talking to him less and becoming more secretive. Still, glad to see her as always, he readies a smile for her. It soon slips off his face however when he sees what she’s done to her hair. Highlights in a clashing colour to her beautifully natural h/c hair can now be found in it, staining the fringe particularly.

 

“Don’t look at me like that Daddy,” she tells him, catching his disapproving gaze as she walks across to him. She pats him on the shoulder and her baggy grey t-shirt flaps a little around her, before she settles on the floor and pulls her laptop case towards her. She slides her laptop out and rests it upon her knees. 

 

“Is this about Mummy?” Mycroft asks with a frown, guessing that it might be, but not feeling particularly sure. Lia’s getting as hard to read as you can be sometimes. 

 

“I just fancied a change that’s all,” Lia shrugs. 

 

Mycroft’s frown deepens as he becomes more certain that he’s right. “I liked your hair”-

 

“Well I didn't,” Lia retorts. 

 

_“Lia”-_

 

She looks up at him with blazing eyes. “I know you liked my hair because it reminded you of Mummy, but I didn't. I don’t want to look anything like her”-

 

“But you do and you’re beautiful because of it,” Mycroft says, for although Lia might have put on some puppy fat and her skin’s becoming spottier her resemblance to you still shines through and it couldn't be any clearer in his eyes. 

 

“Urgh Dad why do you have to be so annoying?” Lia says, flipping her laptop shut angrily and stomping to her feet. Mycroft looks at her worriedly. She’s never called him, _‘Dad,’_ before. He’s always been, ‘Daddy,’ to her. Is this another sign of their relationship crumbling? “I don’t want to be anything like Mum and I'm fed up of people telling me how much I look like her. She left and she’s a coward”-Mycroft opens his mouth-“No she is,” Lia persists, pointing a finger at him. “She couldn't be bothered to do the hard work to help raise me so she left.”

 

“Lia that’s not”- Mycroft begins, putting his glass of scotch down and half-getting out of his chair.

 

“It is true!” she yells at him. “It’s true and I hate you for being so much of an idiot that you can’t even see it!” Mycroft’s mouth opens all the wider, but Lia whirls around and he can hear her running up the stairs. 

 

Feeling too winded to go after her he sits back down with a thump. She’s never talked to him so angrily before. They've had little arguments of course and she’s gotten upset, but never like this. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle it. Seeking advice he gets out his phone and calls you. “F/N?” he says as soon as you pick up. “I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. Lia just yelled at me and she’s got these dreadful highlights in her hair and she’s never been so angry with me before.”

 

You shift your position on the settee as you take in all these interesting new developments. “Hormones,” you finally utter. 

 

 _“What?”_ Mycroft asks, sounding confused. 

 

“Her hormones are kicking in. She’s trying to find her own identity,” you say, and though you feel a pang you can’t say that you feel very surprised that she’s trying to distance herself from you. Mycroft doesn’t say anything. “She’s growing up,” you elaborate. Mycroft shifts about restlessly. “Don’t you remember being thirteen once?”

 

Mycroft thinks that he’d rather _not_ remember being such an age. “But how on earth am I supposed to deal with it and convince her to get rid of those highlights?” he asks, sounding despairing. “I'm sure that her school doesn’t permit them.”

 

You let out an amused breath at all his struggling. “You’re just going to have to be patient with her,” you tell him. 

 

_“But”-_

 

“There’s only so much that you can do,” you point out. “She needs this time to find out who she is as a person. You can use the school angle with the highlights if it turns out to be true, but other than that you’re just going to have to be there for her when she wants you to be and let her make her own decisions and mistakes for the rest of the time.”

 

“But she’s got such beautiful hair my dear. I can’t bear to watch her ruin it if the school _does_ accept them, and she was so rude about the pair of us.”

 

“Of course she was rude about me,” you tell him with an accepting patience, “She’s going through all these changes and I’m the perfect person to vent all that out on. As for you”-

 

“She called me an idiot,” Mycroft says, and he sounds so offended that it makes you let out a soft, fond breath. _“What?”_ Mycroft asks, feeling confused. 

 

“You’re my idiot then,” you murmur, before you can stop yourself. You instantly swallow, curse yourself inwardly and fidget once you realize what you’ve just said. You spend so much time trying to be careful when you speak to him, but no matter how hard you try there is the odd occurrence, like tonight apparently, when your old feelings slip through without you being able to help them. When Mycroft lets out a choked kind of splutter however you can’t help but laugh. “No, in all seriousness though you need to explain to her that it’s not acceptable for her to call you that. You've practically raised her single-handedly and you’ve been there for her. She shouldn't be getting angry with you, no matter what she’s going through. But at the same time if she’s done it this once then you have to know that she’ll probably do it again.”

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh. He wishes that you were here to help him deal with all of this. He’d felt bad enough leaving you to deal with Lia’s toddler tantrums alone, but this seems like an astronomical thing in comparison. “I wish”-

 

“I know,” you murmur, and if the both of you had been sitting next to each other in that moment then your foreheads would have come together with a soft bump. You close your eyes and imagine yourself stroking at his hand, reassuring him, getting him through this moment. Slowly you open your eyes again as a sudden thought comes to you. “You have had _the_ conversation with her haven’t you?” 

 

_“Hmm?”_

 

 _“The_ conversation,” you repeat, hoping that he gets it. But again he just makes a confused sound, so you struggle, “You know the conversation about, well, y’know, the birds and the bees and stuff?” with lots of waving and gesturing of your free hand even though he can’t see you. 

 

“She’s only thirteen my dear,” Mycroft says, sounding alarmed that he even needs to be thinking about such a thing. 

 

You make a frustrated noise. You should have known that he hadn’t. It had taken Mary to realize that Lia needed a bra and she’d also talked to Lia when she’d started her periods. You’d felt a pang of regret because you’d known that it was _you_ who should have been doing all those things, but you’d ended up laughing on the phone with Mary the following nights about it because of Mycroft’s uselessness nonetheless. When Mycroft clears his throat uncomfortably however you rake your free hand through your hair and say, “Yes, I know that sounds young to us, but weren’t you getting urges or beginning to think about certain things at that age?” Silence. “Right,” you clear your own throat. “Anyway, it’s time Mycroft. She might already know a little bit, but it’s important that you make sure she knows everything and that she knows that you’re there for her should she have any questions.”

 

Mycroft pulls a face, which you can imagine him doing from your end, and hesitates. “As much-as much as I want our daughter to be educated in-in all matters my dear, don’t you think that this is a conversation that _you_ should be having with her?”

 

“You want me to swoop in, talk to our daughter about sex and then back away again?”

 

“Well, no, you wouldn't have to leave. Perhaps this would be the right time for you to return. You know, what with Lia getting older and everything? Perhaps”-

 

 _“No_ Mycroft,” you cut him off firmly, “We've had this conversation several times now and we've decided that this is how we’re going to live our lives and this is what’s best.” 

 

 _“I_ never”-

 

 _“No.”_ Mycroft lets out a sigh. “Don’t go passing this on to Mary either. I know that Lia’s growing up now and this is a difficult conversation to be having with her, but it needs to be done.” Mycroft lets out another sigh. “Go and make up with her and try and have it then. The sooner you do it the better,” you tell him, “She shouldn't have to find out from anyone else.”

 

“My dear don’t you think that this is more a woman’s job?” Mycroft goes on persistently. “I wouldn't know where to begin.”

 

You let out a breath and think about it all. _“Well,”_ you begin cautiously. “How did your parents explain it to you?” 

 

“They didn't have to,” Mycroft replies flatly, “I’d figured it out for myself.”

 

“Well, in that case just hope that Lia’s done the same here,” you reply. 

 

It’s no surprise to you when Mycroft lets out another sigh. 

 

He comes off the phone and takes a minute to just let out a few more sighs a moment later. Then he drains the rest of his scotch and gets to his feet. He takes the empty glass back to the kitchen and rubs his hands anxiously against his trousers, before he goes upstairs. He’s so caught up in thought that he enters his daughter’s room without even knocking. 

 

 _“Dad!”_ Lia squeals in annoyance from where she’s sitting on her bed, but Mycroft’s too busy taking in what surrounds her to notice. 

 

A nearly empty packet of biscuits lies on the duvet. It’s covered with crumbs. Her mouth is also stained with evidence of them and as he stares at her it’s like he’s seeing her for the first time. Suddenly the weight she’s put on which he’d just attributed to puppy fat and a normal part of growing up becomes something much more sinister. 

 

Seeing where her father’s gaze has gone to Lia hurriedly attempts to cover up the packet with one of the bottom corners of the duvet.

 

“I’ve seen it,” Mycroft says evenly. 

 

That’s all it takes for Lia to burst into tears. Her hands go up to cover her face and her mouth gasps. Mycroft can see that some of the biscuit is stuck to her teeth and tongue as he goes forwards. 

 

“I'm fat!” she blurts out. “I'm fat and I'm ugly and”-

 

“Oh sweetheart no you’re not,” Mycroft says, sitting on the bed and pulling her forwards. 

 

She sobs against his shoulder, before she draws back. “Yes I am. Everyone at school says so”-

 

 _“Who?”_ Mycroft asks darkly.

 

“It doesn’t matter _who,”_ she whines, getting all the more distressed, “I don’t want you going there. Everyone makes fun of you enough as it is.”

 

“I don’t care”-

 

“Well _I_ do,” Lia persists, her hands ghosting across his shoulders, before they slide down again. Mycroft frowns at her in concern. “I don’t want you going in there and sorting everything out for me like you usually do. I want to do some things by myself.”

 

Mycroft continues to stare at her for another moment, but seeing how serious she is about all this he sighs, “All right.” He nudges at the biscuit packet. “How long has this been going on for?” Lia bites at her lip. _“Lia?”_ he asks her. 

 

“A while,” she relents. Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “It made me feel better at first and then it was just like I couldn't stop.”

 

“Why didn't you talk to me about it all?” Mycroft huffs out, standing up and staring hard at the wall instead of at her. “Have you learnt nothing from your mother’s mistakes?” 

 

“I'm nothing like”-

 

“Yes you are,” he cuts her off, before he utters, “That’s another thing. What you said earlier about Mummy and I was unacceptable. I know that you might be finding things difficult for whatever reason, but I’ve raised you better than that.”

 

“What does it matter if I'm rude about Mum?” Lia asks exasperatedly. 

 

“It matters because she’s my wife”-

 

“Oh come _on_ Dad! She hasn’t been with you properly for years!” Lia says. “I don’t know why you don’t just divorce her,” she mutters, looking off to the side angrily. She looks back at him. “Don’t you ever just want to be with someone else?” she asks him desperately. 

 

“No,” Mycroft replies stubbornly. He turns this way and that for a moment. “I'm fed up of all of this,” he mutters, more to himself than to Lia. He looks back at her. “I think it’s high time that Mummy, you and I got all this sorted out.” Lia opens her mouth. She mouths, _‘How?’_ “I think we should meet up somewhere and air all these differences”-

 

“I don’t want”-

 

“Well _I_ do,” Mycroft overrides her, “I’ve had to put up with all this silliness for years, but I’ve had enough now.” He jabs a finger at the floor and Lia stares at him in astonishment. “I’ve had enough. Your eating disorder is the last straw”- 

 

“I don’t have an eating disorder”-

 

“Yes you do my love, and I think that meeting up with Mummy would be most helpful for you. She’s had her own difficulties. She denied that she had a problem at first too. Perhaps she can advise you,” Mycroft finishes, and with all that decided he walks out of the room. 

 

It’s only when he’s downstairs again that he remembers about the sex talk. He dismisses it. Mary can do it, or you can if it comes down to it. That is hardly the most urgent matter here. He picks up his phone and calls you. “F/N,” he says as soon as you answer, “You need to come to London this weekend because Lia and you are going to talk properly about things once and for all.” You stammer out some protest at once. You think he’s gone mad and are quite taken aback by his abruptness. “Lia’s got an eating disorder,” Mycroft says and you shut up at once, so that he can explain what he’s just seen to you. 

 

*

 

In the end it’s decided that you’ll meet in the room that John uses for his surgery that following Saturday. 

 

Lia keeps on shifting restlessly about as she sits next to Mycroft in the black car over, twirling a bottle of water between her hands. Ever since her confession Mycroft’s been guiding her on how to eat more healthily and be more careful. She’s also started going to see her counsellor again. Mycroft doesn’t know if it will work but he’s hopeful. As he is about the meeting with you going well today.  
You’d arrived back in London yesterday evening and spent the night with Sally, but he’s hoping that if all goes well and what with Lia being a bit older now you might eventually be able to live with them again. Still, sensing his daughter’s nerves he slips an arm around her shoulders. He feels pleased when rather than pulling away she just leans further against him, tilts her head down and rests it against his shoulder. Apparently no matter how much she’s growing up she still needs him. 

 

The car finally pulls up and Mycroft and Lia get out. 

 

“I'm not sure about this Daddy,” Lia says, standing by the car and holding the bottle of water close to her chest. 

 

He looks across at her sympathetically, before he joins her. “It’ll be all right sweetheart,” he assures her, placing a soothing hand on her back, before he uses it to guide her inside. She looks back at him, seeking further reassurance, and he gives her shoulder a quick squeeze. 

 

John comes scurrying up to them as soon as they enter. “Mycroft, Lia,” he says, greeting them with his brow slightly furrowed. “F/N’s already here. Come,” he begins to lead them and Mycroft and Lia exchange another look, before they follow after him. 

 

John opens the door and stands back so that they can pass him. Two sets of plastic chairs have been arranged so that they face each other close to the middle of the room. You’re sitting on one of the ones that face the door. You get up as they enter and shoot a half-smile at them. Mycroft can tell that you can’t manage any more than that because you’re struggling with nerves of your own. 

 

He goes across and kisses you on the cheek. “My dear,” he says, squeezing at your arm. You force a smile at him and he withdraws. 

 

“Darling,” you say as your eyes go to Lia. 

 

She just gives a jerky nod in response, before she sits down with a thump opposite you. You can’t say that you blame her, but your heart still sinks as you sit back down again. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and draws the chair that is next to Lia’s away so that he can sit off to the side and between you both. He is not going to take sides here. Not when it is evident that the both of you could do with some support right now. “So,” he starts things off, “Here we are. Which one of you would like to begin?”

 

Lia’s eyes and yours meet, before your daughter ducks her head down. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her chair. Knowing that it would be more preferable if you, as the eldest, went first, you open your mouth. Then Lia says, “I want to know why you left.” You let out a breath and she looks up at you. Growing more confident she goes on, “Daddy’s always said that you felt too hurt to stay and that you had your own problems, but you don’t look like you’ve been suffering that much.” You realize that she only sees the relatively healthy glow that a bit of make-up and an attempt to exercise and look after yourself has provided you with more recently. She doesn’t see the lines that are slowly growing deeper upon your face or the pained expression that lurks in the depths of your eyes as you look at her. Look at this young woman in front of you now and realize, that despite Mycroft’s attempts for it to be otherwise, just how very little you know her. 

 

You look at Mycroft. He seems to want to respond, but he bites at his lip. This has to come from you. 

 

You look back into Lia’s accusing eyes. “Don’t think for a moment,” you lean forwards, “That I didn't want to stay. I did. I love you and your father very much and I have wanted to be living with the pair of you during these past years more than anything, but as soon as I started to lose control of the feelings that were growing inside of me and I felt the need to drink so much I couldn't escape it. It took me a while to even admit that I had a problem that needed to be dealt with.” You carefully avoid Mycroft’s eyes. “I don’t know if you remember, but I went away for a few weeks?” 

 

“I remember,” Lia says, her eyes scraping against the floor. 

 

“I went to a clinic during that time. I did this four-week course, and it did help. But it didn't stop those feelings from being inside me and I only realized when I came home that I’d just be going around in the same spiral if I stayed. I left again and I hoped for the longest of times that I’d be able to come back.” You close your eyes momentarily now; it still hurts to remember how it had felt to be robbed of such hope. “But then, after what happened that day with Moriarty”- Lia’s face tightens. Her father had told her a bit about Moriarty. Not much, but then he didn't exactly have to. She’d already realized from the way that he’d held a knife to your neck that day what kind of man he was.

 

“Did you know that I had nightmares after that?” she asks you and your face pales. Mycroft had said that she’d been upset, but he’d never said anything about nightmares and you’d always tried to never think about just how deeply she might have been scarred by it all. Just tried to focus on the fact that you, by staying away, were doing so for the greater good and protecting her from ever having to see you in such a situation again. “Not just about what that man almost did to you,” Lia goes on, “But about the fact that you left us, _again._ How could you do that Mum? How could you do that to Dad when he and I needed you?”

 

“Sweetheart I did it to protect you. I realized that no matter how much I wanted to I couldn't live with the pair of you, not happily anyway and that if I stayed only more hurt would come from it. I realized that I’d put your Daddy and you through enough. I didn't think it would be fair to put you through any more. That’s why I had to go.”

 

Lia doesn’t seem happy and Mycroft reaches out a hand, so that he can rub at her shoulder soothingly, whilst she tries to process all this. 

 

“But aren't you better now?” Lia asks, looking at you. 

 

“I still have bad days,” you shrug honestly, “Days where I just feel like drinking is the only answer, but yes, I feel a lot better than I did and its been years since I’ve needed to go to the clinic.”

 

“But if you feel better,” Lia says persistently, her hands shifting against each other, “Then why didn't you ever come home? If you wanted to be with us that much”-

 

“Like I said I did it to protect you and that’s something that I never want to stop doing,” you interrupt more evenly, “In any case would you have honestly wanted me there Lia?” you ask. 

 

“Not really,” she confesses a little awkwardly, ducking her head down and Mycroft lets out a hurt breath. 

 

You however take it in your stride. “So it was perhaps for the best then that I stayed away. In any case you have to understand that more than anything I didn't want to go home and let the spiral that I’d worked so hard to avoid start up all over again. It’s so important that you get that and that you know that just because I’ve chosen not to come back doesn’t mean that I don’t care”- 

 

“But how can you stay away if you love us?” Lia asks, still not understanding. “Even if you want to protect us surely we have a right to decide what we want to be sheltered from and what we want to risk?” You open your mouth, but Mycroft feels a sudden pride for what his daughter’s just voiced. “I’ve heard Daddy talking to you on the phone, asking you to come back. I know that he would have rather had you at home, no matter what might have happened.” 

 

“It was right for me to stay away, surely”-

 

“No it wasn’t,” Lia scoffs, “How can it be right that you’re still married to Daddy but that you don’t even act like a wife to him or a mother to me? You gave him all of those lines”-

 

“Oh Lia, all your talk of Daddy’s lines. You’re thirteen”-

 

“Don’t minimize this,” Lia says, standing up and pointing a finger at you.

 

Mycroft stands up too. _“Lia”-_ he says. 

 

“No Daddy,” she says, before she looks back at you, “You made him sad. You could never see how wonderful he was and I hate you for that!”-

 

“Don’t you dare accuse me of that,” you say, standing up too. “You have no idea of the agony we've been through as a couple,” you say, your face paling even more, “Your father is the most wonderful-wonderful man, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have his faults too.” Mycroft and Lia both stare at you. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me when you were younger? When I had to deal with you all by myself because your father was out working at all hours?”- Mycroft feels a sudden wave of guilt. 

 

“What are his faults compared to yours?” Lia interrupts angrily, before she goes on, “At least he tried! You haven’t even done that for most of my life”- 

 

“You think I didn't try? You have no idea how hard it was for me to leave. I wrote you letters. I”-

 

“So what? You weren’t there at parents night. You weren’t there when I was struggling at school. Where were you when all the other kids were being horrible? You aren't there now when everyone’s calling me fat and ugly and all I want to do is eat because that’s the only thing that makes me feel better.”

 

“Alcohol’s the only thing that makes me feel better sometimes. I can relate to you more than you think,” you tell Lia steadily, “But you have to write or tell me these things. You can’t expect me to help you if I don’t even know properly how you’re feeling and how I _can_ help you”-

 

“I don’t want a letter from you about it two weeks later or whenever you can be bothered. I don’t want a part-time mum. I want someone who will be there for me. Someone who can be there immediately to help.” Tears spurt out of her eyes and your lips part. “You've been a rubbish mother.”

 

 _“Lia”-_ Mycroft says warningly from his place between you, but you raise a hand. 

 

“I know I have, but if you believe nothing else then believe that I’ve always tried to do what’s best for you”-

 

“Best for me? You turned your back on me! What feelings could have possibly been so great that they’d make you do that? And don’t give me that rubbish about wanting to protect us again!” 

 

“I was hurting!” you say. “I was hurting because no matter how hard I tried all you seemed to care about was your father”-

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“Oh, now we’re getting to it! Now you’re dropping the, ‘Poor me, my husband works all the time and can’t you see Lia that I was just trying to protect you?’ act and really being honest with me. You were jealous!” Lia blurts out, overriding her father. “That’s what all this is about! You left because you couldn't cope feeling that way! You couldn't bear seeing the way that Daddy loves me too and having to share him with me! You were worried that he loved me more!” Something about her tone sounds bitterly satisfied now and she takes a step towards you. 

 

Mycroft outstretches his hands to keep some distance between Lia and you. “Maybe you should both”-

 

“It was a lot more complicated than just jealousy,” you get out, close to tears. 

 

“Was it?” Lia asks. “Was it really? Or are you even more pathetic than I’d thought?” 

 

You let out an anguished breath. 

 

“Lia that’s enough,” Mycroft says, turning to his daughter and blocking you from her. 

 

“I don’t know why you keep defending her! She left! She’s useless and the sooner you admit that the better! She’s just a pathetic drunk who couldn't even be unselfish enough to put her own feelings aside and stay with her family!” 

 

“Would you just listen to me for a moment? I know you’re angry and I'm sorry that I’ve hurt you, but I _was_ putting you first,” you utter in a distraught voice, but when you move forwards Mycroft swats at you with his hand to try and keep you back. “That’s what I’ve always tried to do.” 

 

“Lia,” Mycroft says, trying to keep his patience, “I know that it is hard for you, but you have to try and be a bit more understanding. Your mother has a very complicated history and”-

 

“Memory loss is no excuse. People have gone through far worse and still stuck by their families.” With that she gives the pair of you one last scathing look, before she turns around. 

 

 _“Lia!”_ Mycroft and you both call after her. 

 

She turns back around. Tears shine in her eyes. “I love you Daddy, you know that I do, but I just don’t understand how you can keep defending her.”

 

Mycroft steps towards her. “I love your mother and that is why I keep defending her Lia, just like I’ll always defend you. If I had it my way then F/N would never have left us and we’d still be living together. This is the situation we’re in however and I’d appreciate it if you could come back, sit down and do your best to understand what F/N is telling you.”

 

Lia studies him for a moment, before she shakes her head. “I don’t want anything more to do with her,” she says, before she turns her back on you both and drifts out. 

 

“Goodness,” Mycroft utters, taken aback by it all. 

 

You huff out a breath and sit down. Mycroft looks back at you. “Go,” you say, looking at him in between your fingers. He opens his mouth, but when you look at him firmly he nods and leaves. You need to be alone right now.

 

*

 

This is the last time that you see Mycroft and Lia for years. Mycroft calls you of course. He calls you to say how worried he is when Lia starts getting into boys. He sounds incredulous because surely it was only yesterday that Lia was out playing with her toys? You’re a supportive ear and you continue to listen as Mycroft regales tales of woe as Lia chooses unworthy boy after unworthy boy. Boys who've got tattoos, boys who are older and who smoke. You tell him that it’s just a phase and that she’ll grow out of it one day and pick some more suitable types. You had after all. But it falls on deaf ears to a worried father. You listen to the despair in his tone as he tells you about a massive argument Lia and he had, had when she’d discovered that he’d been looking up details of her current love interest on the system at work and practically stalking him via CCTV. Mycroft’s argument is that he was trying to educate her, so that she wouldn't waste any time on another failure, but you come to agree more with what he says is Lia’s point of view, which is that he’s invading her privacy and not letting her make her own choices. Though you advise and comfort him the best that you can in each scenario your answers remain cautious and guarded. You like hearing about their lives, it re-connects you to them, but, after that disastrous meeting you’re more aware than ever before that you’re an ‘other’ in your daughter’s life and that even with Lia being a little older now you’re probably never going to have the relationship that you want with her. This is proven more in your mind when you go to the funeral of Mycroft’s mother and feel forced to stay on the sidelines and like you can’t even approach them when Lia gives you a glare from where Mycroft’s got his arm around her shoulder. More awkward funerals are to come in the following years what with Mycroft’s father and your own parents passing. Then death seems like it might come for you too when you’re diagnosed with liver cancer. Mycroft as usual discovers about your diagnosis without you telling him and he’s adamant that now is the right time for you to return to London, so that he can look after you. You protest. Lia might have long since left home, graduated from university and now be working as a counsellor with a place of her own in the city, but you’ve heard from John that Mycroft’s been struggling with his own health problems and you do not wish to be a burden. 

 

Finally, and when the cancer has taken hold of you, making you look older than you are and making you feel certain that you do not have as long as you’d like left in this world, despite the use of chemotherapy to try and slow it down, you get the good news that Lia is engaged. You’d suspected that such a thing might be coming for some time. Lia had met her fiancé Robert through work. Mycroft had of course done his usual checks, though he’d been sensible enough to do them behind Lia’s back this time and he’d assured you that he’d found nothing to be concerned about. On the contrary Robert with his dark hair, hazel eyes and an understanding of Lia that seems to run as deeply as Mycroft understands you had seemed like the perfect match. 

 

Of course Lia does not invite you to the wedding, but Mycroft does. You’re not sure until the last minute whether you will attend though. It’s not that you don’t want to. It’s more that you’re sure that you’ll be an unwelcome presence and you don’t wish to make your daughter unhappy on her wedding day. Still, in the end, aware of your deteriorating health and the great need inside you to see your daughter happy, you make the trip, ignoring how rough and tired that it will surely make you feel. 

 

You sneak hesitantly inside the church once the service has already started. Your eyes flicker to your daughter, now with her fully natural h/c hair, and marvel at how beautiful she looks in her long, white dress as she stands facing her husband to be. You notice that Robert’s looking at her full of love, before your eyes roam amongst all the other people that are there. They catch on the heads of Sally and her husband Don-a chef that she’d met in a nightclub one night-Greg and his wife Roxanne-a beautiful woman with now faded blonde hair who’d also been in the force-Sherlock, John and Mary. Anderson and Molly, both having already passed away from natural causes in the last couple of years are not there. You feel a pang at their absence. Others are there though who must be Robert’s family and both his and your daughter’s friends. You feel a shooting pain inside you as you realize that you couldn't pick out who are the friends that mean the most to Lia in that London church even if you were asked to do so. But you feel even more pain when you realize that the old man who’s standing close to Lia and looking down at her proudly is none other than your own husband. Your eyes hadn’t even recognized him on their first visit to him. You’d known of course that he’d been growing older, known of course that if age had changed all of your friends and you then it must have done the same to him too, but it is only as you gaze at him and take in the fact that nearly all his hair is gone apart from a few stubborn strands that cling on to a spot just above his ears, the wrinkled lines on the side of his face and see how his slightly plumper frame leans more heavily against his umbrella that you realize that you’d still somehow expected to see him as you primarily remember him. With more of the auburn hair that you love and a thinner, more sprightly frame. As if he senses your presence he turns his head at the exact same time that you let out a breath, and for a moment as those blue eyes catch upon you, you see the younger Mycroft standing there. The Mycroft that you’d seen waiting for you at the end of the aisle on your own wedding day in fact. His old dry lips quirk upward into a soft smile and for a moment, as you sense how pleased and touched he is to see you there, you feel young again. Your cancer soon reminds you that you’re not however, and, feeling a little breathless you make to sit down discreetly at the back of the church. 

 

Mycroft’s gaze has gone back to Lia now, but it’s not long, before he’s touching at her elbow and making to shuffle past her, moving up the aisle. The vicar falters and the service comes to a momentary halt. Everyone’s attention goes to Mycroft and a distinct muttering takes up the church. Mycroft, a bit harder of hearing now but not so deaf to not be aware of such a thing, waves his free hand, nearly stumbling as he does so and calls, “Carry on, carry on. This is a young person’s game I'm afraid and I need to sit down.”

 

A chuckling starts up, but you’re far too suddenly nervous to appreciate it. You feel sure that Mycroft’s coming for you. You’re so certain of such a thing in fact that you even shuffle across a bit in the otherwise empty pew that you’re sitting in. 

 

Mycroft glances at you and a rather playful and mischievous smile toys about his lips for a moment, before he turns away and goes to sit in the empty pew that’s opposite you instead. 

 

You swallow as you wonder what’s going on and if he’s playing some sort of game with you, but when you look across at him cautiously it’s to see that he’s leaning back with his legs slightly apart and looking on at the proceedings with all the serenity of a wise wizard. His umbrella is on his far side and leans against the pew in front of him. He nods suddenly and you see that Lia’s attention has gone to him. Both the service and the vows continue, but your eyes can’t help but slip to your husband again. Still he doesn’t look at you. Perhaps he hasn’t recognized you? You wonder. But he’d looked at you so knowingly as he’d walked up the aisle you think, and he’d seemed to grasp that it was you, before that too. You frown and look across at him. This time he’s looking directly at you. You start. That soft smile comes back onto his face. He beckons you with his finger. You look anxiously back at your daughter, but she’s too busy with what’s happening in her own life. Your eyes dart back to Mycroft. His eyes are more intent now as if he’s trying to summon you to move with the power of his mind and he beckons you more persistently. You swallow, before you make the brave decision to go across and join him. You try and do so quietly, but as you shuffle out of the pew your arm knocks a little clumsily against the wood. A couple of people from the pew in front of you turn to look at you. Your nerve wavers. Mycroft starts randomly humming and gets people to look his way instead. You smile at him. Feeling braver you cross the aisle to join him. He turns his gaze to you and pats at the space beside him. You sit down upon it and he grasps at your hand, which trembles almost constantly now from all your years of abusing alcohol. He rests it against your leg. 

 

Robert can tell what his fiancée is thinking as soon as he sees that her gaze has now gone to where you’ve joined Mycroft. He sees all the old hurt and confusion flare up there and squeezes gently at her waist to get her to look at him. As soon as she does so her lips part. Knowing what she’s about to say Robert gets there first. “I know you didn't invite her,” he says in a low voice, “But look at your father. Can’t you see how happy she makes him? Does anything else really matter at the end of the day?”

 

Lia’s about to tell him that the past does matter, that in fact it matters a great deal. But as she looks at the maddening gaze that Robert is sending her, pleading her not to be a pig-headed fool about all this and to think about her dying father, then back to her parents and to Robert once more she lets out a little breath and nods. He is right she knows, just as he’s often been right in the past. He’s been helping her to work through her issues ever since they’d started getting more intimately acquainted, encouraging her to talk more about how she feels and even suggesting that she should write to you. She hadn’t. She’d been far too stubborn to properly go through with it even if she had managed to start the occasional letter, but she knows that even if she’d let that chance go the time for being stubborn is long since past. These are, without a doubt, her father’s last days, and if he wants to spend them with you then that should be his choice. She will not be the person to deny him such happiness. Seeing the melancholy in her determined gaze Robert squeezes at her waist to get her out of her thought and the service continues. 

 

“Can you believe,” Mycroft says, turning his gaze away from Lia and peering down at you, “That the beautiful creation we made is now getting married?” Pride runs through his tone, but it’s a pride that you don’t feel that you deserve to share. You make a sound of acknowledgement. “We've wasted so much time my dear,” Mycroft pats at your hand. 

 

“I know,” you shift guiltily in your seat. You can’t bear to even look at him. You face the front again. 

 

“I’m afraid,” Mycroft says, and he says such a thing so bracingly now that it makes you look at him. “That you are not the only one who has little time left in this world. My heart, which I have put through so much over the years, is failing me.” 

 

 _“No,”_ you breathe, sounding horrified, and tears well up in your eyes at once as the gates of this injustice open up inside you. For how dare this kind, gentle man who has tried so hard over the years, and who has been battered by emotion after emotion that he did not want-mostly your fault you know-have a failing heart! How dare God, if _He_ is up there, do this to him! 

 

Mycroft’s face softens at the clear anger and sadness that you’re feeling. He knows then, without a doubt, that even after all these years you still love him. “No tears,” he murmurs, wiping away the pools, which have gathered beneath your eyes with his finger. “Not today,” and then, as Robert and Lia are announced husband and wife and Robert kisses her, Mycroft cups at your cheek and lowers his lips to yours. It’s a gentle, but probing one all the same and though you do not blush and your heart does not swoon as much as it once would have-age has taken care of such things-you feel happy from it all the same. It feels right. As Mycroft pulls away applause starts up around the church. At first you think that it’s for the new bride and groom and your eyes look to the front eagerly. But then you realize that everyone is now clapping and getting to their feet because of Mycroft and you. You see Sally looking at you with a knowing pleasure about her face, her once thick hair now considerably thinner and greyer, but that same wicked sparkle in her eyes. You see Greg wolf-whistling with dry, cracked lips, his hair as silver as ever and Sherlock shaking his head knowingly, his grey curls bouncing. You see a plumper John and Mary sharing a soft smile, no doubt just as happy about this moment as they are about their daughter Grace being a bridesmaid. But it is when you see Lia smiling grudgingly at you that you feel the biggest swell of emotion. She nods as if to finally accept that she has always shared her father with you just as much as you have shared him with her. Tears splatter down your crinkled face. 

 

“What did I say?” Mycroft nudges you, but when you look at him you see that his eyes are damp too. 

 

After taking care of the legal side of things Lia and Robert make their way out of the church. Mycroft and you both stand and as they go past Lia squeezes at your arm. You know that all is not forgiven and that the scars of old hurt are still there, but this grudging acceptance and long last respect of Mycroft’s love for you is definitely a start. 

 

“Thank you darling,” you utter, and once more she nods, before she leaves the church with her new husband by her side. 

 

People start filing out, but Mycroft and you stay where you are. 

 

Sherlock is the first one out of your friends to reach you. The ex-consulting detective’s colourful eyes are still full of mischief and his memory, though not as good as it once was, is still pretty sharp. Especially when it comes down to embarrassing his brother. “I expect you’ll be wanting to take F/N back to the house for some _‘alone’_ time?” he asks Mycroft teasingly. 

 

A light blush graces Mycroft’s cheeks as his mind is taken back to the masquerade ball all those years ago. 

 

“You, sensing that there’s a deeper story there, but not knowing what it is, ask keenly, “What’s this?” 

 

 _“Ah,”_ Mycroft says, waving his free hand and wobbling in place a little as he looks as if he’d rather you desisted this train of conversation. 

 

“The night of the masquerade ball my brother invited you for a drink at his place. Lestrade and I weren’t sure of his identity, so we tried to intercept you. You were adamant that you wanted to go back to his, but just before he followed you my brother whispered into my ear and revealed his identity, along with the fact that he didn't want to be disturbed.” Sherlock looks at his brother wickedly. 

 

“Yes, well…” Mycroft trails off embarrassedly, his umbrella nearly giving way as he shifts his position and you grab at his arm to steady him. He looks at you gratefully. 

 

Sally, having heard the gist of what Sherlock had said, lets out a bit of a laugh as Greg, John, Mary and she all join you. You hug them each in turn, whilst Sherlock saunters out of the church. Someone needs to keep an eye on his niece after all. 

 

“We’ll leave you to it, but it’s good to see you again F/N,” Sally says, before she mouths, ‘Call me,’ when you nod. You smile, knowing that Sally’s just as interested now in other people’s business as she once was. 

 

Greg, looking a little dishevelled, says, “Typical of you to gatecrash your own daughter’s wedding F/N,” before he hugs you.

 

“Oh,” you say as you let out a bit of a gurgling laugh.

 

Greg pulls back from you with a smile, throws a wink at you and says, “Take care of her,” to Mycroft, before he follows Sally out. 

 

“Well, this is long overdue,” Mary says, looking between Mycroft and you as her shoulder-length white hair swishes behind her. 

 

Mycroft and you look at one another. You suddenly find that you feel like laughing and have to look away again. You had not expected such occurrences to happen at your age. Mycroft clears his throat. 

 

John opens his mouth, about to speak, but before he can Mary grasps at his hand. He looks at her with a puzzled annoyance. 

 

“Come,” Mary says, before she starts to tug him out of there. John rolls his eyes and mumbles something incoherently. 

 

Mycroft chuckles pleasantly and you laugh. 

 

“No change there,” you cackle fondly, wiping a tear of mirth from your eyes. You look at Mycroft at the same time that he looks at you and things suddenly become more serious. 

 

 _“Shall_ we go back to the house then?” Mycroft asks, one of his eyebrows rising. 

 

You’re about to agree, before something comes to you. “Don’t you want to go to the reception?” you ask. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ Mycroft waves his free hand and you clutch onto him tighter. “That’s really a young person’s game. But if you wish to go then I will of course accompany you,” he says politely. You shake your head. Loud chatter and revelry isn't much your thing nowadays, if it had ever really been. “If that’s the case,” Mycroft says, “Then I think that the house is the most suitable place for the pair of us my dear.”

 

You nod and shuffle out of the pew at last, embracing the cool November day. 

 

*

 

The pair of you take a taxi and when it arrives you hobble up the driveway together, your arms linked and Mycroft holding the umbrella a little shakily above you both to combat the drizzle. He seems a little anxious that you’ll slip and injure yourself on the wet gravel and you have to keep reassuring him that you won’t. In between that though you notice that the tree that had once been on the left is now gone [“I hated to see it go, but it was either that or the house,” Mycroft tells you.] Whilst it is also clear that certain repairs have been done over the years too, but it is astonishing how unremarkably changed the place looks from the one that you remember. You have no idea that Mycroft’s done his best to keep it that way in order to preserve the way it had looked when you’d once lived there. 

 

Mycroft and you move inside after he shuts his umbrella and opens the house with a little difficulty. As he lets the damp umbrella fall into its holder with a dull thunk you look around. One of the first things that you notice is that there’s now a stair lift. You can’t help but let out a chuckle as you imagine Mycroft whizzing up and down in it. 

 

“I hope you’re not finding the idea of me using that amusing my dear,” Mycroft says, looking at you rather knowingly. You smile at him. “I had rather hoped not to have such a thing. It did rather ruin the feel of the old house when they put it in, but my legs are not what they used to be, and if I'm feeling tired…” he trails off. 

 

“Of course there was no chance of you ever moving to a bungalow,” you joke in an attempt to cheer him up. 

 

He smiles at you and then you both move into the kitchen. “Perhaps this is not the wisest of things, but I feel sure that neither of us will be getting drunk now,” he says as he carefully slips out a bottle of wine from the rack. 

 

“Yes, I think those days are long gone,” you agree a little awkwardly; before you accept the glass that he pours you. 

 

You sip at it for a moment, before you lower it down to the counter. 

 

Mycroft doesn’t drink his. Rather he just gives you an indulgent little smile, before he picks up his wine and leads the way into the living room. 

 

You follow after him slowly with your own glass. Your mind is fairly calm and untroubled, despite all the ghosts that are walking about in this house. For everywhere you go you can see younger versions of Mycroft, yourself and even Lia, all roaming about, busy, busy, busy and hear all three of you talking. Your body however is achy and irritable like it always seems to be these days. There’s only so fast that you can go, but much to your relief Mycroft also takes things slowly. 

 

He directs you to the settee and you sink down upon it gratefully. Mycroft watches you with a smile, before he puts his own glass on a side cabinet and gives one of said cabinet’s drawers a tug. It opens with an unwilling rattle and Mycroft huffs out a breath, before he brings across what was inside over to you. 

 

“Look at these,” he murmurs once he reaches you. You put your glass on the floor, before you let out a little breath once you realize what he’s holding out to you. “The masquerade masks we wore to the ball all those years ago,” Mycroft explains, his tone full of wonder and light. 

 

You take them from him and study the faded f/c and gold and orange and white colourings. You twist and turn them in your shaky hands and wish that you could remember wearing yours and Mycroft in his. How handsome he must have looked!

 

You feel Mycroft shifting away, but you don’t look up because right at that moment a tear chooses to leak out of your eye. A moment later soft music fills the room. It stems from a gramophone, which Lia had bought for Mycroft on a birthday long ago. You can’t know how many times he has just let its music play out at night when he’d been in this old house alone and dreamt of dancing with you. Dreamt of just having you in his arms for one last time. Mycroft returns to you and when you feel him standing over you, you look up at him. His hand is outstretched towards you. He’s ready to make that fantasy a reality now. You take his hand and get up with some difficulty. Mycroft gently takes his mask from you and slips it on. Getting the idea you let out a bit of an amused chuckle and do the same with yours. You look at Mycroft once yours is on and you can’t help but smile. His blue eyes peer at you and he’s wearing the most tender of smiles as if he’s waited an eternity for this moment. You suppose that he has. 

 

“You’re making us young again,” you warn him in an attempt to try and bat away all the emotion that you’re feeling. 

 

“Shall we?” Mycroft smiles, seeing straight through you as usual. 

 

You nod and allow yourself to be guided across, so that you’re standing on top of the rug where Mycroft and you slowly rotate with your hands upon his shoulders and his upon your waist. Finally it comes back to you. You see a younger Mycroft standing in front of you. His head bedecked in an orange cap with a white feather, his body shrouded in a tan waistcoat over a white shirt, dark brown trousers and a red cloak as he wears the same mask that his older counterpart does now. Gosh how smart he looks! You feel the warmth of his hand on your waist for the first time and the prickle of something that it had sent through you. You see him spinning you beneath his arm and remember how you hadn’t enjoyed any of it because you’d been so distracted by Moriarty and thought that you should really have been telling everyone about his return. You remember the balcony before that, taking Mycroft’s arm and then later on seeing this house for the first time. You remember his body over yours…you let out a breath and your eyes flutter open without you even realizing that you’d closed them. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft asks, concern in his eyes as he goes stiller. 

 

“I remembered,” you breathe, “About us dancing and the house and-and our first time. Oh Mycroft how wonderful it all was! I wish I’d appreciated it more.” 

 

Mycroft takes off your mask and his at once and throws them gently aside to the floor. Your eyes sparkle as he looks back at you. “Oh my dear, oh I am so glad. So glad that you’ve remembered at last,” he murmurs earnestly, and before you know what’s happening he’s pulling you close, kissing just beneath your eye and you’re dancing cheek to cheek. 

 

For one glorious moment it had been like what with those memories surfacing again between you, you’d both been young once more, but at the sight of one of your old, shaky hands as it clutches onto Mycroft’s shoulder, the feel of his fragile heartbeat against yours and the way that he’s considerably more stooped and leaning against you, you’re reminded of all the years that have gone by without you being in one another’s arms. 

 

Mycroft pulls back from you a little. “My brother said a long time ago,” he says, as if he too recognizes all the years that have past. “That Moriarty saw you as being my John and that is why he targeted you.” Your lips part. “But he was wrong,” Mycroft goes on, and as he brushes at your hair a little you close your mouth. “You are not my John, you are what Moriarty is to my brother and I feel sure that Moriarty must have recognized that and that was why he was so persistent to see if we could be parted because he wondered if the same thing could ever happen with him and Sherlock.” You look horrified and attempt to pull away from him. “Listen,” Mycroft murmurs, pulling you back to him. “The point I am trying to make is not necessarily a bad one. In fact it is more of a happy and sad one.” He strokes at your hair again, feeling how it has aged and become more brittle. “You see Sherlock and he can’t be separated any more than we can. When it comes down to it you are my Moriarty because no matter all the dreadful things that have occurred in our lives because of each other we can’t help but feel this pull that brings us back together. Take tonight for example, I could only resist keeping away from you for a minute or so, before I had to be closer to you. Every time in our lives that we threatened to part we could not see it through, not completely. In all these years we have lived apart, but still communicated. We could not break that final thread”- 

 

“I’m terribly sorry,” you say, drawing back from him, “For all that I’ve put you through.” You cup at his cheek and lock eyes, before you allow your hand to slide to his chest. 

 

“I won’t hear your apologies,” Mycroft says, “Not tonight”-

 

“But everything you just said, about Moriarty”-

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a laugh and even after all these years it warms you. “Typical of you to only focus on the brief words that I said about Moriarty,” he says. You smile a little in spite of yourself at that as he looks at you. “We’re together again F/N,” he announces, jostling you, “You said that you wished you’d appreciated it more before, so just savour it now.” You let out a bit of a gurgle, before you nod. Moriarty after all is not here now, _oh,_ you’re sure he’s still out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows, but he’s not here. It’s just Mycroft and you. The way it should be. 

 

You go back to dancing. You rock and sway against each other for a few more moments, before, both feeling tired, you make your way back to the settee, whilst Mycroft collects his wine.

 

You talk softly together as you sit side by side. Your bodies gradually draw closer together until you’re leaning properly against him and he’s got his arm around your shoulders. His fingers seem to be rubbing shapes into it. You feel happy, content. 

 

Slowly the light leaves the room and the shadows creep in. 

 

Mycroft gets up. His knees creak as he does so and you both let out a little chuckle. Your old age is a fascinating and amusing topic for you both. He looks at you. “I’ll switch the lights on, unless”-

 

 _“Unless?”_ you push, your eyes on him steadily, though your lips can’t help but quirk upward. 

 

He smiles at you a little nervously. He waves his hands and wobbles and you smile as soon as you know that he’s all right again. His face may be more lined, but he is still the same Mycroft, and matters of the heart still scare him and make him feel more awkward than any other. “Forgive me,” he says, looking away, and you shiver as all the past times that he’s said those words to you come back. He looks at you quickly again. “I-I don’t want to be presumptuous.” You, having now remembered that, that was what he’d said to you, before the first time you’d made love, smile. “But perhaps you’d like to rest in bed with me?” Your lips part. “Just rest mind,” he warns, “I don’t think that either of us are in a fit state for anything more.”

 

You smile and nod, before you get up again and follow a relieved looking Mycroft to the stairs. 

 

He frowns as soon as the stair lift comes into view and the both of you stop in front of it as if it is a new puzzle that has been presented to you to solve. 

 

“I’ll go up first,” Mycroft decides, “I’ll send it back to you, though you’ll have to be vigilant and watch as I strap myself in, so that you know what to do.”

 

You pat at his arm to stop him from worrying. “I’ll be fine,” you soothe. 

 

Mycroft nods, though he makes sure to clearly state the exact method of what he’s doing as he straps himself in. You roll your eyes. Unfortunately you choose to do so at the same time that Mycroft looks at you expectantly. He lets out an amused breath. “I’ll let you get up there without the stair lift if you keep giving me such cheek,” he teases, before he reaches up a hand, so that he can tap at your nose. You crinkle it up and smile, knowing that he’d never make you do such a thing. “Right,” he clears his throat, “I’ll be off then.” With a click of a button he’s away, rattling up the stairs in the noisy contraption and smiling at you rather sheepishly as he goes. Knowing that he finds this the new height of embarrassment you give him a bit of a mischievous wave. You laugh when he returns it in a very regal fashion. You definitely hadn’t expected this sight today. He disappears around the corner and you hear the stair lift coming to a stop. 

 

“Okay,” Mycroft calls, after you hear the sound of him unbuckling and getting unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll send it back to you. It goes a little bit strange sometimes on the corner, so if you get stuck you’ll have to call me and I’ll come and get you.”

 

“I'm sure I’ll be fine,” you say, wondering how difficult a stair lift can really be. 

 

It comes slowly back down to you, and it seems to take an age, before it finally returns. You take your seat and with a bit of low muttering, which you’re hoping that Mycroft can’t hear, you strap yourself in. Funnily enough it is harder than it looks, and, whilst you wish that you’d paid more attention, it takes a few tugs for you to get yourself sorted. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft calls, evidently getting worried, and you can imagine him shifting his position. 

 

“Yes,” you say a little irritably, feeling glad that you can finally push the button and be on your way again. 

 

It turns out that Mycroft’s right. It does struggle with the corner. In fact it gets stuck and determined not to have to go through the shame of Mycroft rescuing you, you jiggle about a bit. Finally it gets working again. Mycroft comes back into view. He lets out a relieved breath and you jerk to a stop. 

 

“All right?” 

 

You nod. 

 

He bends down and unbuckles you without you have even asked him to, before he helps you into a standing position. You smile at one another and he steps back, turning towards the bedroom. 

 

“Take my hand,” you utter, and Mycroft glances at you over his shoulder with a little smile, before he follows your command.

 

He guides you forward, and, hands entwined, you enter the bedroom. Memory after memory jumps out at you: your first time, lying awake whenever Mycroft had been late coming home, Lia jumping on the bed at Christmas, all those days you’d wasted feeling worthless…

 

“I believe I still have some of your old pyjamas here if you want to be more comfortable,” Mycroft murmurs, squeezing at your hand and bringing you out of your thought, before he goes across to open the wardrobe and reveals that he’s kept everything you’d left behind all those years ago. 

 

You let out a bit of a gasp and step forwards. “Didn't keeping everything hurt?” you can’t help but ask as you draw level with him, wondering how he could have spent everyday seeing some of your clothes in the wardrobe alongside his and not gone crazy because of it like you would have surely done had your situations been reversed. 

 

“Every day,” Mycroft utters, pulling out your pyjamas and giving you a bit of a sad smile. “But I suppose I always hoped that one day you’d return and that, if you did, some of your things would be here waiting for you. I never thought I’d have to wait this long though.” He gives you a bit of a pained smile, before he clears his throat. “I think you’ll find if you look downstairs tomorrow that Lia has stolen a couple of your books,” he goes on, evidently trying to make a point of humour, “But apart from that everything is as it should be.”

 

You take the pyjamas from him, feeling touched and looking forward to finding out what books of yours your daughter had taken with her. 

 

Mycroft and you change, smiling as you sneak a peek at one another and remembering how you’d done exactly the same thing when you’d shared that bath together after getting engaged. You let out a soft sigh. You’d been so young and full of hope then. Your future had just been getting started and now your bodies tell the story of all the passing years because they are aged. 

 

You slip into bed beside each other, on the same sides as you would normally if you slept together, with Mycroft on the left and you on the right and the pair of you let out a little breath. You might be aged and sadder now, but somehow, after all these years, you have found each other again and everything is all right. The hope inside you has been restored. More than that though you know in your heart that you won’t return to Wales and your sister now. She has Darren and their two children. You have Mycroft. You’ll stay with him until the very end. 

 

“Do you have any regrets?” you can’t help but ask. 

 

Mycroft hesitates for a moment. “Only that we did not share as much time together as I would have liked,” he says finally. 

 

In full agreement with that you shift closer to him and tuck your head against his shoulder. Mycroft switches off the light, before he settles back down and strokes at your hair. 

 

For the longest of times you both lie there with only the sounds of your jagged breathing and Mycroft’s raspy pants filling the air. But then you suddenly realize that you can’t hear the sound of him wheezing any more. Your heart tightens and you know without even having to switch the bedside light on that he’s gone, but you do so anyway. 

 

“Oh my love,” you say sadly as you see him. But when you notice that he’s slipped away with a perfectly serene smile upon his face as if he could not have gone in a happier fashion you let out a choked, emotional breath. You know then that the prospect of sharing the moments he had with you that night had been all that had kept him going this long. Tears gather beneath your eyes and you try and blink them away again as you stroke at the few wisps of his remaining hair. You press your lips to his. “Oh my darling,” you breathe as you pull away from him, “I understand, I understand.” You stare and stare at him. As you do so he seems to come back to life, before your very eyes. Younger now he seems to sit up and smile at you, before he takes you in his arms and whispers soft assurances in your ear. _‘Come with me my dear,’_ he seems to say, _‘Come and dance with me for eternity.’_ You swallow and nod because that’s exactly what you want to do. Your hand fumbles to switch off the light and you close your eyes as the sombre hoot of an owl comes from outside. You lie back down with your eyes still shut, knocking against your husband’s body and tucking yourself close to him. Soon you are dancing with him amongst the stars and there really could be nothing better. 

 

* 

 

Lia finds you both the following morning. Robert persuades her that the pair of you should be buried together and one day, once time has healed her wounds more or less completely and she has her own little girl, Lia finds herself telling her about Mycroft and you, two people who were destined to be together. Two people who time couldn't part.


End file.
